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vers l'arričre, tournez vers l'arričre
tous en dedans et tous sans moi
un dieu
foncé-eyed
polit le dernier âge, le prochain avec espoir est vu
sommeil, frčre gris de la mort
de nos endroits cachés
pourquoi si triste mon bel?
il y a un pays complčtement de vin

 



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