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daughter poem

voici ne tomber aucune lumière
le plus triste de l'année
allé avant nous
environ porté plainte au maître
la fille, art de thou viennent pour mourir
doucement maintenant la lumière du jour
élever, comme vent a soufflé
quand je vais de nouveau à la terre
tous apaisent le long du potomac
un orage monte sur la marée
je sais pas où
laissez-moi être triste

 



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