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sympathy poem

il parle pas bien
mélancolie, bleu il était
mon âme est un champ labouré foncé
qui est le coureur dans les cieux
si le tueur rouge pensent il massacre
levé des morts
laissez une subsistance de joie vous
aucune proie ne suis moi des pensées faibles
environ porté plainte au maître
souffleur de verre de temps

 



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