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thanksgiving poetry

avec le rouge de sang de lèvres et le coeur de la pierre
qui aime la pluie
il est venu me prendre par la main
nous avons aucune honte?
vieux vin à boire
au-dessus du fleuve, sur la colline
regarder là-bas
il n'y a aucune bande, toutefois observé et tendu
le merriment sans fin et idiot des étoiles
il est vrai que vous disiez que les dieux sont plus d'utilisation à vous que des fées
avant le saint en bronze solennel
laissez-moi être triste


 



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