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mother poem

il y a un pays complètement de vin
un orage monte sur la marée
dans leurs regimentals loqueteux
qui aime la pluie
les longs couloirs de marbre resounding
la étoile-poussière et lumière vaporeuse
quelle chance spiteful vole des unawares
il y avait un temps en anciennes années
je l'aime
bien que je sois peu en tant que toutes les petites choses
j'ai vu la première poire
l'aube était vert pomme
l'obscurité roule vers le haut

 



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