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short poem

quelle chance spiteful vole des unawares
le soleil a fait un pas vers le bas de son trône d'or
mon âme disparaît plaquée dans des choses magnifiques
plantons
et ils marchaient toujours dessus
nous qui se sont tenus
travails de la terre
là où je trouvez-vous
doucement pleurant
je me tiens par temps gris froid
splendor doux
êtes vous vivant?

 



Poetry news via Google, MSN, and Yahoo!

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