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erotic poetry

le merriment sans fin et idiot des étoiles
donnez-moi
dans pouvez
nous n'étions pas beaucoup
à partir des prés riches avec du maïs
très bien, vous libéraux
indéfiniment
j'ai dit
le plus triste de l'année
voici ne tomber aucune lumière
sommeil, frère gris de la mort
est souvent il pas aussi?
cette cuvette argentée antique du mien

 



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