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mother poem

la neige chuchote au sujet de moi
la nuit était noire et triste
soyez dans moi comme modes éternels
je ne puis pas toujours sentir son greatness
n'accrochez aucune guirlande
cette cuvette argentée antique du mien
a arqué l'inondation
il y a bien longtemps, dans le jeune clair de lune
j'ai gagné la course
glooms des vivre-chênes

 



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