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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2011-02-22 | [This text should be read in francais] | Submited by Guy Rancourt
Ils m’attendent, là -bas où la pluie est ouverte
Et l’encre en son registre a scellé rien qu’un pleur Ils m’attendent, le plat-d’herbe exalte la hauteur Ce sont amis que tel soleil a démunis (Édouard Glissant, Fastes, 1991)
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