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mon âme est un champ labouré foncé
je descends les chemins de jardin
faites les garçons et les filles vont toujours
il y avait un temps en anciennes années
mais je ne puis pas vous lire maintenant
un poèt, ayant pris le frein outre de sa langue
se déclenchant vers le haut, tombant vers le bas
au-dessus du fleuve, sur la colline
si je meurs, pensez seulement ceci à moi

 



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