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spanish poem

il y a une ville, builded par aucune main
leurs beaux cheveux
les vérités terribles ceux-ci soient
dans la sphère
plantons
je sais pas oĂą
nous nous étendons
en septembre
les petites prières blanches
quand absence de sa taille de montagne
de la chanson et du rêve pour jamais allé
l'air est plein de l'aube et du ressort

 



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