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father poem

ce qui nous fera maintenant
n'accrochez aucune guirlande
doucement maintenant la lumière du jour
peut-être ce n'est aucune matière que vous êtes morte
le maître des destins humains suis moi
je vous chante
un orage monte sur la marée
les petites prières blanches
il y a des gains pour toutes nos pertes

 



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