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teen poetry

quelque part j'ai lu un conte étrange, vieux, rouillé
la pluie plus de, et l'air brillant
ne soyez pas faux
la fille, art de thou viennent pour mourir
splendor doux
le corps peut confiner
pourquoi sont les choses qui n'ont aucune mort
nous avons aucune honte?
dans le port de New York

 



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