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romantic poetry

ville qui n'est pas une ville
peu de parc que je traverse
basculé dans le berceau du profond
les voûtes du pont rouge
ne restez pas plus
c'est l'arsenal
avec les yeux doux et bruns
quand le voile des yeux est soulevé
la lune se levante a caché les étoiles
il y a une heure du repos paisible
doux comme lit dans la terre
allés sont les trois, ces soeurs rares
ont eu lui et I mais réuni


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