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footprint poem

la fille, art de thou viennent pour mourir
il y a des gains pour toutes nos pertes
ma douleur, quand elle est ici avec moi
la pluie plus de, et l'air brillant
vous faites ne pas entendre
pourrions nous mais savoir
quatre-vingts ans ont passé, et plus
mon fils est mort et je suis aveugle allant
son gris bascule toujours la tour au-dessus de la mer
qui aime la pluie

 



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