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sad poem

à ce qui une femme la comparera aimée
donc je ne puis pas
certains des maux que vous avez traités
hauts murs et énorme
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
si le tueur rouge pensent il massacre
contre la flamme verte de l'aubépine-arbre
sommeil, frère gris de la mort
voici se trouver une dame la plus belle
juste en tant que mes doigts sur ces clefs

 



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