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father poem

le petit pitoyable, porté, visages de rire
o juste et stately bonne, dont les yeux
tressé et tissé
à certains les gros dieux
quand je vais de nouveau à la terre
le parfum est venu
qui est le coureur dans les cieux
et pendant que nous marchions l'herbe a été faiblement remuée
laissez-nous pitié ceux outre dont soyez meilleur que nous sont
je suis las d'être amer et las d'être sage

 



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