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mon amour vrai de son oreiller a monté
une lueur d'or dans le gloom et le gris
dans votre vol
mon fils est mort et je suis aveugle allant
complètement des larmes
il y a trois ans d'aujourd'hui
doux comme lit dans la terre
mais je ne puis pas vous lire maintenant
peu de porte a été atteinte enfin
et pendant que nous marchions l'herbe a été faiblement remuée
j'ai hérité le désert parce que mon âme est assoiffée

 



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