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sad poetry

puisque j'ai senti le sens de la mort
doucement pleurant
pour ces bras blancs au sujet de mon cou
vieux vin à boire
je la pense splendide juste
il y a mille années silencieuses
soudainement, hors des manières foncées et feuillues
vous dites que vous m'aimez
je me demande parfois s'il est vraiment vrai
j'aime mon heure de vent et de lumière

 



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