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death poetry

le ciel
je dédaigne mes amis davantage que vous
allé avant nous
ce qui nous fera maintenant
il y a un pays complètement de vin
l'aube était vert pomme
je meurs
laissez-moi être triste
pour ces bras blancs au sujet de mon cou
voici ne tomber aucune lumière
là où je trouvez-vous
donnez-moi
seule

 



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