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narrative poetry

tristes sont ils qui savent pas l'amour
une pensée gentiment solennelle
un mille derrière
en ce moment
mon âme est un champ labouré foncé
behold je, en mon chiffon, gaze et tresse
un ciel qui n'a jamais connu le soleil, la lune ou les étoiles
exprimons nos passions plus basses
comment comme les étoiles sont ces le blanc, les visages inconnus
ne soyez pas fâché avec moi

 



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