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lyric poem

roulez-moi vers le bas par le pré
une lueur d'or dans le gloom et le gris
si je meurs, pensez seulement ceci à moi
sous un arbre de propagation de châtaigne
prenez mes bracelets
fleurs des bébés
je l'ai vu une fois avant
n'accrochez aucune guirlande

 



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