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son poem

vous faites ne pas entendre
mon amour vrai de son oreiller a monté
comme des aigles sur la haute haute
ma mère m'a enseigné que chaque nuit
voici ne tomber aucune lumière
y a il quiconque là
un orage monte sur la marée
donc je ne puis pas
la femme a beaucoup manqué, comment vous appelez à moi, appel à moi
bonheur
son visage est juste et lisse et bon
au-dessus du fleuve ils montrent à moi

 



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