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black poetry

la nuit était noire et triste
dans des vos bras était le plaisir immobile
elle a éclaté le vin féroce
pour la vérité, pour l'amour
quand j'étais a enfoncé à Londres
dans votre vol
pourquoi sont les choses qui n'ont aucune mort
au-dessus d'elles toutes, regardant vers le bas
je sais ce que vous allez dire
par le pont grossier

 



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