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memorial poem

mon âme est un champ labouré foncé
tristement parlant
je me suis tenu prêt le tissu pour rideaux ouvert
la noblesse de la mort encore
ma mère m'a enseigné que chaque nuit
musing, entre le coucher du soleil et l'obscurité
elle pourrait l'avoir su en ressort premier
il y a une ville, builded par aucune main
nous qui se sont tenus
quand j'étais un garçon à l'université

 



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