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gothic poetry

mon fils est mort et je suis aveugle allant
musing, entre le coucher du soleil et l'obscurité
j'ai vu que vous hunched et tremblant sur les pierres
qui aime la pluie
mon amour vrai de son oreiller a monté
j'ai vu les nuages parmi les collines
si le tueur rouge pensent il massacre
le soleil a fait un pas vers le bas de son trĂ´ne d'or

 



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