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grandma poem

sous un arbre de propagation de châtaigne
mais alas, rêves justes
pourquoi sont les choses qui n'ont aucune mort
il raconte de bonnes vieilles périodes
je fais ma monture, mais personne ne sait
la neige chuchote au sujet de moi
au-dessus d'elles toutes, regardant vers le bas
voyez l'expérimental

 



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