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lyric poetry

ne soyez pas faux
comme lui à qui esprit dans la flamme du midi
le soleil est vers le haut
près d'un champ en détresse
j'ai gagné la course
en septembre
maintenant que je me suis refroidi à vous
gros mâles noirs dans une salle de vin-baril
je ne puis pas toujours sentir son greatness
bonne femme
gaily par les champs nous avons dansé
j'ai vu qu'un dieu vous doutent de lui?
s'il
souffleur de verre de temps

 



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