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love poem

l'air est plein de l'aube et du ressort
un poèt, ayant pris le frein outre de sa langue
beaux, tragical visages
nous avons aucune honte?
la foudre a clignoté, et s'est soulevée
sommeil gentiment dans vos tombes humbles
la nuit passée la pleine lune a étendu un tissu de blanc
la noblesse de la mort encore
dans toutes les choses non parlées de


 



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