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writing poetry

très bien, vous libéraux
éliminer, luttant vainly
tous en dedans et tous sans moi
les poèts le disent
qui est le coureur dans les cieux
la fille, art de thou viennent pour mourir
l'obscurité roule vers le haut
c'était l'automne de l'année
je me tiens par temps gris froid
la nuit est foncée, et les vents d'hiver

 



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