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best love poem

doux comme lit dans la terre
il parle pas bien
je secoue mes cheveux dans le vent du matin
dans la sphère
fleur blanche de mousse, fleur rouge de flamme
là où je trouvez-vous
l'aube était vert pomme
pour ces bras blancs au sujet de mon cou
voici ne tomber aucune lumière
vécu à côté de la rive
ville qui n'est pas une ville
behold je, en mon chiffon, gaze et tresse

 



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