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anniversary poetry

le pré rampait
je fais ma monture, mais personne ne sait
pourquoi sont les choses qui n'ont aucune mort
les jours hypocrites
fleur blanche de mousse, fleur rouge de flamme
en matins nuage-gris
il y a une ville, builded par aucune main
avant le saint en bronze solennel
enveloppez la terre par temps nuageux
la pluie plus de, et l'air brillant
composé seul du loveliness

 



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