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thanksgiving poem

foncé-eyed
splendor doux
la fille, art de thou viennent pour mourir
il y avait un strangeness sur vos lèvres
j'ai hérité le désert parce que mon âme est assoiffée
n'accrochez aucune guirlande
laissez-moi se déplacer lentement par la rue
le pré rampait
frère, je suis le feu
le soleil et vent et battement de mer
ce qui je vous doivent
puisque, si vous vous teniez prêt mon côté aujourd'hui
les montagnes ils sont les gens silencieux

 



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