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grandma poem

l'air est comme un papillon
comment sauvage, comment sorcière-comme étrange qui la vie devrait être
la foudre a clignoté, et s'est soulevée
roulez-moi vers le bas par le pré
par le pont grossier
monde qui change sous ma main
nos moments plaisants volent
une brume entraînait une réduction
dernier minuit
peu de porte a été atteinte enfin

 



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