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erotic poetry

treize ans toujours
mon âme disparaît plaquée dans des choses magnifiques
je descends les chemins de jardin
son visage est juste et lisse et bon
elle était une beauté en jours
je sais ce que vous allez dire
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
nous avons aucune honte?
ne soyez pas faux
j'ai aimé une femme

 



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