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gothic poetry

sous ma fenêtre dans une rue de ville
ne soyez pas fâché avec moi
le mystère le plus foncé et le plus étrange
doux comme lit dans la terre
sommeil, frère gris de la mort
au-dessus du fleuve ils montrent à moi
les jours endeared à chaque MUSE
nous cassons le verre dont le vin sacré

 



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