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o juste et stately bonne, dont les yeux
le pré rampait
calme en tant que que deuxième été
fleur blanche de mousse, fleur rouge de flamme
quand j'étais a enfoncé à Londres
gloom
ils me demandent où j'ai été
par de la large le sein faisant mal terre
elle boite avec stopper le pas douloureux
sous la lune de moisson
quelque part j'ai lu un conte étrange, vieux, rouillé

 



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