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african american poetry

la nerezza
in sua tenda custodita
perchè sono le cose che non hanno morte
amo la mia ora di vento e di luce
nel porto di nuovo York
dolce e forte
alcuni giorni più ventosi
sono il vento che esita
la canzone e sogno da per andato mai
per questi bracci bianchi circa il mio collo
quando libertà dalla sua altezza della montagna

 



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