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christmas poetry

ville qui n'est pas une ville
la noblesse de la mort encore
comme lui Ă  qui esprit dans la flamme du midi
quelque part j'ai lu un conte étrange, vieux, rouillé
étaient elle pas pour cette odeur singulière
le plus triste de l'année
elle a un espace libre, loveliness vent-abrité

 



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