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lyric poetry

ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
avec les yeux doux et bruns
se déclenchant vers le haut, tombant vers le bas
certains des maux que vous avez traités
sommeil gentiment dans vos tombes humbles
vous vous rappelez
descendu à l'aube des collines windless
pour puis en dehors
donnez-moi la faim

 



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