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death poetry

mélancolie, bleu il était
je ne puis pas toujours sentir son greatness
les étoiles sont tombées du ciel
comme lui à qui esprit dans la flamme du midi
comment sauvage, comment sorcière-comme étrange qui la vie devrait être
dans leurs regimentals loqueteux
je réside à la montagne de table
à partir du sud à la coupure du jour

 



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