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nature poem

je suis le vent qui hésite
dans votre vol
vous êtes beau et fané
cette cuvette argentée antique du mien
sommeil gentiment dans vos tombes humbles
ceux sur le supérieur indiquent qu'elles vous connaissent, la terre -- elles sont des menteurs
truely
à travers He va
il n'y avait jamais un bruit près du bois mais d'un

 



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