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retirement poem

le soleil a fait un pas vers le bas de son trône d'or
il est allé
foncé-eyed
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
il y a des gains pour toutes nos pertes
orage
ne tournez pas votre tête
roulez-moi vers le bas par le pré
peut-être
ma mère m'a enseigné que chaque nuit

 



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