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death poem

j'aime ma vie, mais pas trop bien
nuit mystérieuse
j'ai vu la première poire
je me suis tenu
glooms des vivre-chênes
calme en tant que que deuxième été
peut-être ce n'est aucune matière que vous êtes morte
la nuit est foncée, et les vents d'hiver
vous pensez, mon garçon, quand je mets mes bras autour de vous
dans leurs regimentals loqueteux
l'air est comme un papillon
j'ai vu les archangels dans mon pomme-arbre la nuit passée

 



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