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marriage poem

n'accrochez aucune guirlande
souvent je pense à la belle ville
roulez-moi vers le bas par le pré
un orage monte sur la marée
le parfum est venu
quelque part j'ai lu un conte étrange, vieux, rouillé
peu de porte a été atteinte enfin
une lueur d'or dans le gloom et le gris
leurs beaux cheveux
ombres étendues le long de broadway
l'aube était vert pomme
mon âme disparaît plaquée dans des choses magnifiques

 



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