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sad poetry

aimez-moi enfin, ou si vous pas
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
écoutez
démontré dans la lueur vacillante dans vos yeux
splendor doux
peut-être ce n'est aucune matière que vous êtes morte
jusqu'à sa fenêtre de chambre
fait longtemps polir la lumière du soleil d'été
éliminer, luttant vainly

 



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