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retirement poem

simplicité
elle boite avec stopper le pas douloureux
je me tiens par temps gris froid
l'air est comme un papillon
o juste et stately bonne, dont les yeux
à l'aube, il a dit
avec le rouge de sang de lèvres et le coeur de la pierre
dans la sphère
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
n'accrochez aucune guirlande
est souvent il pas aussi?
laissez-moi être triste

 



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