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brother poem

le soleil a fait un pas vers le bas de son trône d'or
son gris bascule toujours la tour au-dessus de la mer
il aurait même sa plaisanterie
sous ma fenêtre dans une rue de ville
qui appellera le vent
la fille, art de thou viennent pour mourir
elle doit retourner, elle a dit
calme en tant que que deuxième été
nous qui se sont tenus
ce que je souhaite remarquer
dans leurs regimentals loqueteux
doucement maintenant la lumière du jour
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée

 



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