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type of poem

le parfum est venu
son gris bascule toujours la tour au-dessus de la mer
tous ces trésors qui se trouvent
il y a d'un que ce I par le passé a aimé tellement
nous n'étions pas beaucoup
sous la lune de moisson
au-dessus d'elles toutes, regardant vers le bas

 



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