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roulez-moi vers le bas par le pré
voici ne tomber aucune lumičre
ceux sur le supérieur indiquent qu'elles vous connaissent, la terre -- elles sont des menteurs
oiseaux contre le vent d'avril
son gris bascule toujours la tour au-dessus de la mer
quand absence de sa taille de montagne
le parfum est venu
quelque part j'ai lu un conte étrange, vieux, rouillé

 



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