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christian poem

fait longtemps polir la lumičre du soleil d'été
environ porté plainte au maître
quelques jours plus venteux
un stylo d'acier
roulez-moi vers le bas par le pré
dossier une nuit de vol
aimez-moi enfin, ou si vous pas
je n'ai jamais su que la terre a eu tellement l'or
voici ne tomber aucune lumičre
ne soyez pas faux
monde qui change sous ma main

 



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