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sad poetry

l'enfant qui a jeté la feuille après feuille
la nuit est foncée, et les vents d'hiver
maintenant que je me suis refroidi à vous
hors de moi indigne et inconnu
le petit pitoyable, porté, visages de rire
je fais ma monture, mais personne ne sait
le soleil a fait un pas vers le bas de son trône d'or
la dame, votre coeur s'est tournée vers la poussière

 



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