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child poetry

la fille, art de thou viennent pour mourir
quelque part j'ai lu un conte étrange, vieux, rouillé
hauts murs et énorme
hors de la fenêtre une mer des arbres verts
la musique i entendu avec vous était plus que la musique
une pensée gentiment solennelle
dans toutes les choses non parlées de
n'accrochez aucune guirlande
il aurait même sa plaisanterie
dans le port de New York

 



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