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life poem

Ă  travers He va
désolé et seul
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
aucune proie ne suis moi des pensées faibles
ne vous affligez pas qu'elle plus de
avant le saint en bronze solennel
les cieux qu'ils étaient ashen et sobre
elle connaît un dégagement bon marché
c'est la chanson de la jeunesse
roulez-moi vers le bas par le pré

 



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