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christian poetry

il y a une ville, builded par aucune main
au-dessus des dessus de toit emballez les ombres des nuages
le roulement triste du tambour insonorisé a le battement
ce qui je vous doivent
la dame, votre coeur s'est tournée vers la poussière
robuste, humble-abeille de somnoler
pourquoi sont les choses qui n'ont aucune mort
je vous ai détesté

 



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