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retirement poem

levé des morts
un stylo d'acier
qui appellera le vent
il y a mille années silencieuses
ombres étendues le long de broadway
la pluie plus de, et l'air brillant
je suis allé à travers les rues
son gris bascule toujours la tour au-dessus de la mer
vécu à côté de la rive
de la chanson et du rêve pour jamais allé
il aurait même sa plaisanterie
le poing serré simple soulevé et préparent
babylon -- où je vais rêver
dans des nombres mournful

 



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