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aucune proie ne suis moi des pensées faibles
elle doit retourner, elle a dit
avec la joie et la merveille
roulez-moi vers le bas par le pré
quand je vais de nouveau Ă  la terre
robuste, humble-abeille de somnoler
quelque part j'ai lu un conte étrange, vieux, rouillé
pour venir tellement bientôt à ceci a imaginé l'obscurité

 



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