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poem for pastors

pour venir tellement bientôt à ceci a imaginé l'obscurité
il raconte de bonnes vieilles périodes
il y avait un temps en anciennes années
truely
désolé et seul
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
une ombre grise mince sur le bord de la pensée
il y a un pays complètement de vin
ne tournez pas votre tête

 



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