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grandmother poem

ceux-ci soient
mais alas, rêves justes
je suis fevered
l'air est plein de l'aube et du ressort
remuez
fait longtemps polir la lumière du soleil d'été
à partir des prés riches avec du maïs
je me tiens par temps gris froid
quand absence de sa taille de montagne
une ombre grise mince sur le bord de la pensée
pour moi étais un conseiller décharné et grave
quand les heures du jour sont numérotées

 



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