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death poetry

sommeil gentiment dans vos tombes humbles
je me demande parfois s'il est vraiment vrai
le merriment sans fin et idiot des étoiles
la nuit est foncée, et les vents d'hiver
près d'un champ en détresse
l'amour a été chanté mille manières
je n'ai jamais su que la terre a eu tellement l'or
il y a bien longtemps, dans le jeune clair de lune
vous êtes clair

 



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