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poem for pastors

il est venu me prendre par la main
c'était l'automne de l'année
ville qui n'est pas une ville
roulez-moi vers le bas par le pré
regarder lŕ-bas
quand la nuit dérive le long des rues de la ville
trčs bien, vous libéraux
écoutez
du plancher au plafond
pourrions nous mais savoir
fait longtemps polir la lumičre du soleil d'été

 



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