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romantic poem

nos moments plaisants volent
il y a une heure du repos paisible
ville qui n'est pas une ville
travails de la terre
je sais pas où
vous entendez la pluie?
le soleil est vers le haut
cette année
cette cuvette argentée antique du mien
effrayé pas plus, je dis
nous cassons le verre dont le vin sacré
je vais ma manière complacently
remplacez la vision du plaisir
pour ces bras blancs au sujet de mon cou

 



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