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spanish poem

la figlia, l'arte di thou viene morire
bello
ci erano tre nel prato dal ruscello
l'odore del è aumentato coś falso, le spine coś allineare
dal profondo e l'oscurità
corsa alto-sopportata
vado il mio senso complacently
parla non bene
uplifting, come il vento ha saltato

 



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