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poetry poem

une ombre grise mince sur le bord de la pensée
ne tournez pas votre tęte
certains des maux que vous avez traités
le corps peut confiner
travails de la terre
j'ai fait un voeu par le passé, un seulement
substance de la lune
au-dessus du fleuve ils montrent ŕ moi
enveloppez la terre par temps nuageux
pourquoi si triste mon bel?
pourquoi sont les choses qui n'ont aucune mort
vous ętes clair

 



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