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son poem

voyez, de cette contrefaçon de lui
seule
pourquoi si triste mon bel?
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
du soleil ni des étoiles
quand j'étais a enfoncé à Londres
la pluie plus de, et l'air brillant
mais alas, rêves justes
j'ai vu la première poire
nous qui se sont tenus
le roulement triste du tambour insonorisé a le battement
et ils marchaient toujours dessus

 



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