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type of poem

mon amour vrai de son oreiller a monté
quelle chance spiteful vole des unawares
la noblesse de la mort encore
il y a d'un que ce I par le passé a aimé tellement
une lueur d'or dans le gloom et le gris
indéfiniment
il y a une ville, builded par aucune main
la nuit est foncée, et les vents d'hiver
les ombres des bateaux
ces yeux noirs i une fois ainsi félicité
près d'un champ en détresse

 



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