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death poetry

orage
il n'y a aucune évasion par le fleuve
ne soyez pas faux
par le rivage, par la mer
dans des vos bras était le plaisir immobile
souffleur de verre de temps
il y avait un temps en anciennes années
le mystère le plus foncé et le plus étrange
vers l'arrière, tournez vers l'arrière
vieux vin à boire

 



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