Ce qui nous voient ici dans les dunes de sable seule de la lune blanche avec nos penses, facture, seules avec nos rves, facture, doux en tant que femmes attachant des charpes autour de leur danser de ttes, seul avec une image et une image prochain aprs l'autre de tous les morts, les morts davantage que tous ces grains du sable un empils ici dans la lune, empils contre l'horizon se dessinant comme la main du vent voulu, ce qui nous voient ici, facture, en dehors de de ce que le battement d'hommes sages leurs chefs dessus, en dehors de pour de ce que les pots pleurent et les soldats conduisent dessus toute allure et laisser leurs crnes au soleil pour -- ce qui, facture ?
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