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sad love poem

aucune proie ne suis moi des pensées faibles
hauts murs et énorme
il y a une ville, builded par aucune main
quatre-vingts ans ont passé, et plus
dans des vos bras était le plaisir immobile
les longs couloirs de marbre resounding
elle doit retourner, elle a dit
la étoile-poussière et lumière vaporeuse
behold je, en mon chiffon, gaze et tresse
pourquoi puis, la nécessité nous voient?

 



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