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poetry for kid

ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
o juste et stately bonne, dont les yeux
peu de parc que je traverse
pourquoi sont les choses qui n'ont aucune mort
pharaoh, roi de la terre de l'Egypte
complètement des larmes
donc je ne puis pas
travails de la terre
gaily par les champs nous avons dansé
il y avait un strangeness sur vos lèvres
au-dessus du fleuve, sur la colline

 



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