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memorial poem

non giri la vostra testa
in settembre
li ho detestati
il padrone dei destini umani sono io
il pietoso piccolo, portato, facce ridere
la pioggia finito e l'aria brillante
la notte era nera e drear
cittŕ che non č una cittŕ
a volte mi domando se č realmente allineare
come le aquile sul high alto

 



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