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romantic poetry

mon âme est un champ labouré foncé
mon fils est mort et je suis aveugle allant
par le rivage, par la mer
tressé et tissé
il y a une heure du repos paisible
travails de la terre
avec le coucher du soleil
sous la barre du guerrier
écoutez la mer retentissante
à partir des prés riches avec du maïs
ce qui je vous doivent
je la pense splendide juste

 



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