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poetry poem

peut-ętre ce n'est aucune matičre que vous ętes morte
je ne prie pas pour la paix
maintenant pour un combat vif et gai
il n'y avait jamais un bruit prčs du bois mais d'un
les bateaux se situent dans le compartiment
il parle pas bien
j'ai jeté mon âme ŕ l'air comme un vol de faucon
le poing serré simple soulevé et préparent
sous la feuille sombre de laurier

 



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