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grandmother poem

je fais ma monture, mais personne ne sait
Ă  minuit
Ă  travers He va
je me suis tenu
quand la nuit dérive le long des rues de la ville
avec les yeux doux et bruns
l'odeur du s'est levée si faux, les épines si vraies
dans des vos bras était le plaisir immobile
la noblesse de la mort encore
avec la joie et la merveille

 



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