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christmas poems

souvent je pense ŕ la belle ville
lŕ oů je trouvez-vous
quand les heures du jour sont numérotées
doux comme lit dans la terre
sommeil, frčre gris de la mort
truely
ce qui était lui les moteurs dits
un ciel qui n'a jamais connu le soleil, la lune ou les étoiles
vous ętes beau et fané
elle a dit

 



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