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romantic poetry

dans sa tente gardée
peut-être ce n'est aucune matière que vous êtes morte
parmi les montagnes j'ai erré
leurs beaux cheveux
ce que je souhaite remarquer
la foudre a clignoté, et s'est soulevée
roulez-moi vers le bas par le pré
glooms des vivre-chênes

 



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