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mother daughter poem

una pesca piccola nel frutteto si è sviluppata
è venuto prenderlo dalla mano
ci sono tre sensi in cui gli uomini prendono
quando le ore del giorno sono numerate
sedendosi nel suo attuatore che aspetta il vostro tè
poiché ho ritenuto il senso della morte
al lato di un campo raso
un gleam di oro il gloom in e gray
come candela bianca
dal sud alla rottura del giorno
ci è uno che quella i amava una volta così tanto

 



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