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autumn poetry

je ne puis pas toujours sentir son greatness
contre la flamme verte de l'aubépine-arbre
une petite pęche dans le verger s'est développée
dans ma main je me tiens
exprimons nos passions plus basses
clair de lune profond et tendre
je descends les chemins de jardin
si le tueur rouge pensent il massacre

 



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