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puisque j'ai senti le sens de la mort
splendide et terrible votre amour
dans le port de New York
les petites pričres blanches
ŕ ce qui une femme la comparera aimée
gros mâles noirs dans une salle de vin-baril
en septembre
pourquoi sont les choses qui n'ont aucune mort
une ombre grise mince sur le bord de la pensée
le soleil est vers le haut
l'amour a été chanté mille maničres

 



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