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autumn poetry

polit le dernier âge, le prochain avec espoir est vu
je ne puis pas vous dire maintenant
je dédaigne mes amis davantage que vous
mon âme est un champ labouré foncé
ne soyez pas fâché avec moi
sous un arbre de propagation de châtaigne
se reposer dans son culbuteur attendant votre thé
j'ai eu une crainte dans ma vie
je me tiens par temps gris froid
je meurs

 



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