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life poetry

il y a une ville, builded par aucune main
vieux vin ŕ boire
descendu ŕ l'aube des collines windless
mon fils est mort et je suis aveugle allant
je meurs
le soleil est vers le haut
au-dessus des dessus de toit emballez les ombres des nuages
les jours mélancoliques sont venus
aucune proie ne suis moi des pensées faibles

 



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