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father poem

elle a entendu les enfants jouer au soleil
vers l'arrière, tournez vers l'arrière
nous n'étions pas beaucoup
qui aime la pluie
doux et fort
voici ne tomber aucune lumière
roses et or
la noblesse de la mort encore
ceux sur le supérieur indiquent qu'elles vous connaissent, la terre -- elles sont des menteurs
souvent je pense Ă  la belle ville
un, comme part d'un arbre

 



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