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narrative poetry

mais alas, rêves justes
je me demande où vous vivez
roses et or
désolé et seul
la dame, votre coeur s'est tournée vers la poussière
sommeil, frère gris de la mort
n'accrochez aucune guirlande
j'ai vu avec les yeux ouverts
avec la joie et la merveille
son visage est juste et lisse et bon
il y a trois ans d'aujourd'hui
certains des maux que vous avez traités

 



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