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gothic poetry

il n'y avait jamais un bruit près du bois mais d'un
tristes sont ils qui savent pas l'amour
ville qui n'est pas une ville
ne vous affligez pas qu'elle plus de
je tiens votre coeur
qui aime la pluie
y a il quiconque là
oranges de plumaison nubian bleu-noires
dans sa tente gardée
vous êtes clair
les voûtes du pont rouge

 



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