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mom poem

la pluie plus de, et l'air brillant
dans la terre silencieuse
un orage monte sur la marée
il y a un pays complètement de vin
son visage est juste et lisse et bon
je suis le vent qui hésite
la fille, art de thou viennent pour mourir
un mot de vol d'ici et lĂ 
apportez-moi la chanson douce
allé avant nous

 



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