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mom poem

ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
je suis las d'être amer et las d'être sage
volonté vous miroitez sur la mer?
avec les yeux doux et bruns
ne soyez pas faux
faites les garçons et les filles vont toujours
les voûtes du pont rouge
la nuit passée la pleine lune a étendu un tissu de blanc
gloom

 



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