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short friendship poem

parmi la fumée et le brouillard d'un après-midi de décembre
quand je suis retourné au coucher du soleil
de nos endroits cachés
j'ai vu la première poire
simplement parlant
s'il
une brume entraînait une réduction
et pain de breaketh pas plus
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
je sais ce que vous allez dire
je suis le vent qui hésite
bas! 'tis par nuit de gala

 



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