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christian poem

les drowses pâles de jour sur l'occidental trempent
du soleil ni des étoiles
peut-ętre ce n'est aucune matičre que vous ętes morte
je vais ma maničre complacently
tristement parlant
short et doux, et nous sommes arrivés ŕ la fin de lui
les voűtes du pont rouge
pharaoh, roi de la terre de l'Egypte
ce qui je vous doivent

 



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