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thanksgiving poetry

mon âme est un champ labouré foncé
la fille, art de thou viennent pour mourir
les bateaux se situent dans le compartiment
j'ai eu un rêve et je me suis réveillé avec lui
une petite pêche dans le verger s'est développée
la dame, votre coeur s'est tournée vers la poussière
jusqu'à sa fenêtre de chambre
comment j'aidez vers la droite le monde qui tourne mal

 



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