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grandma poem

elle boite avec stopper le pas douloureux
clair de lune profond et tendre
ce qui était lui les moteurs dits
souvent je pense à la belle ville
le merriment sans fin et idiot des étoiles
il y avait un temps en anciennes années
les longs couloirs de marbre resounding
tressé et tissé
la pluie plus de, et l'air brillant

 



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