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child poem

bien que repine d'amour, et frottement de raison
le roulement triste du tambour insonorisé a le battement
son gris bascule toujours la tour au-dessus de la mer
mon âme disparaît plaquée dans des choses magnifiques
doux et fort
beau
quand j'étais a enfoncé à Londres
exprimons nos passions plus basses
la neige chuchote au sujet de moi
les jours endeared à chaque MUSE

 



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