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grandma poem

l'enfant qui a jeté la feuille aprčs feuille
short et doux, et nous sommes arrivés ŕ la fin de lui
levé des morts
ils dans le rassemblement d'obscurité et demandent
par de la large le sein faisant mal terre
la noblesse de la mort encore
vous avez marche vue par le village
vous faites entendre
ce qui nous fera maintenant
prenez mes bracelets

 



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