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suicide poetry

l'aria è piena l'alba del e la molla
dice a di buoni vecchi periodi
nel porto di nuovo York
pensate, il mio ragazzo, quando metto i miei bracci intorno voi
uccelli contro il vento di aprile
potremmo ma sapere
se muoio, pensi soltanto questo me
quale si conservare
tre anni fa oggi
li prevedo

 



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