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thanksgiving poetry

juste en tant que mes doigts sur ces clefs
mon fils est mort et je suis aveugle allant
la musique i entendu avec vous était plus que la musique
l'aube était vert pomme
vous pensez, mon garçon, quand je mets mes bras autour de vous
et pendant que nous marchions l'herbe a été faiblement remuée
je fais ma monture, mais personne ne sait

 



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