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sad poem

pourrions nous mais savoir
allé avant nous
à l'amoureux passionné
truely
tristes sont ils qui savent pas l'amour
dans des nombres mournful
ma mère m'a enseigné que chaque nuit
la pluie plus de, et l'air brillant
passé persistant de thou
la noblesse de la mort encore
l'air est comme un papillon
son visage est juste et lisse et bon

 



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