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narrative poetry

l'obscurité roule vers le haut
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
peu de parc que je traverse
du soleil ni des étoiles
ces yeux noirs i une fois ainsi félicité
j'étais une déesse avant que le marbre m'ait trouvé
vous êtes beau et fané
pourquoi puis, la nécessité nous voient?
j'aime les vieilles configurations melodious
avec la joie et la merveille

 



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