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marriage poem

il raconte de bonnes vieilles périodes
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
la fille, art de thou viennent pour mourir
quand absence de sa taille de montagne
pour moi étais un conseiller décharné et grave
l'obscurité roule vers le haut
dans votre vol
les nuances de la nuit tombaient rapidement
soudainement, hors des manières foncées et feuillues
il y avait de trois dans le pré par le ruisseau

 



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