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death poem

un poet, prendente il freno fuori della sua linguetta
non ci è fuga dal fiume
è venuto prenderlo dalla mano
nei numeri mournful
dal ponticello rude
per venire così presto a questo ha immaginato l'oscurità
quando ho rinviato al tramonto
la notte è scura ed i venti di inverno
stuff della luna
lasci una conservazione di gioia voi
non ho saputo mai che la terra ha avuta così tanto oro
quando la notte va alla deriva lungo le vie della città


 



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