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father poem

musing, entre le coucher du soleil et l'obscurité
dans sa tente gardée
je les ai offerts tout l'adieu
je ne puis pas vous dire maintenant
le plus triste de l'année
mon amour vrai de son oreiller a monté
je fais ma monture, mais personne ne sait
dans des nombres mournful
aucune proie ne suis moi des pensées faibles
l'obscurité vole les formes de toutes les reines

 



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