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lyric poem

avec ses cheveux flaying d'une maničre extravagante
l'obscurité roule vers le haut
dépassement par les murs blottis et laids
beau
je ne puis pas vous dire maintenant
n'accrochez aucune guirlande
il est allé
son visage est juste et lisse et bon
ŕ l'aube, il a dit
levé des morts

 



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