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grandmother poem

mais alas, rĂŞves justes
l'enfant qui a jeté la feuille après feuille
elle pourrait l'avoir su en ressort premier
sous ma fenĂŞtre dans une rue de ville
je descends les chemins de jardin
soyez patient, la vie, quand l'amour est Ă  la porte
les drowses pâles de jour sur l'occidental trempent
je suis le vent qui hésite
je dois dire bonne nuit

 



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