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modern poetry

levé des morts
à partir des prés riches avec du maïs
ne soyez pas fâché avec moi
la nuit est foncée, et les vents d'hiver
la neige chuchote au sujet de moi
les bateaux se situent dans le compartiment
il est allé
homme froid sévère
behold je, en mon chiffon, gaze et tresse
dans le port de New York
bas! 'tis par nuit de gala

 



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