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thanksgiving poetry

l'obscurité roule vers le haut
voyez, ils retournent
je suis vieux et aveugle
nous cassons le verre dont le vin sacré
apportez-moi la chanson douce
mon âme disparaît plaquée dans des choses magnifiques
le poing serré simple soulevé et préparent
simplement parlant
bien que repine d'amour, et frottement de raison

 



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