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death poetry

bonheur
je dédaigne mes amis davantage que vous
je me tiens par temps gris froid
je me demande où vous vivez
je ne brûle aucun encens
un poèt, ayant pris le frein outre de sa langue
environ porté plainte au maître
quand, plein de l'amour chaud et désireux
la foudre a clignoté, et s'est soulevée

 



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