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mom poem

ceux sur le supérieur indiquent qu'elles vous connaissent, la terre -- elles sont des menteurs
sommeil, frère gris de la mort
comme égaliser tombe
monde qui change sous ma main
je la pense splendide juste
puisque, si vous vous teniez prêt mon côté aujourd'hui
un, comme part d'un arbre
les petites prières blanches
glooms des vivre-chênes
dans le port de New York

 



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