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myspace poem

la nuit est foncée, et les vents d'hiver
bien que je sois peu en tant que toutes les petites choses
avec ses cheveux flaying d'une manière extravagante
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
elle a dit
si je meurs, pensez seulement ceci à moi
pourrions nous mais savoir

 



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