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romantic poetry

il y avait de trois dans le pré par le ruisseau
qui appellera le vent
et ils marchaient toujours dessus
soudainement, hors des maničres foncées et feuillues
le merriment sans fin et idiot des étoiles
ne tournez pas votre tęte
ŕ partir du sud ŕ la coupure du jour
les vérités terribles ceux-ci soient
affligez-vous pas pour l'invisible

 



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