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writing poetry

environ porté plainte au maître
pas du monde large de totalité
la nuit est foncée, et les vents d'hiver
dans le port de New York
les étoiles sont tombées du ciel
de nos endroits cachés
la lune se levante a caché les étoiles
behold je, en mon chiffon, gaze et tresse
pourquoi sont les choses qui n'ont aucune mort
j'étais une déesse avant que le marbre m'ait trouvé

 



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