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short poem

li prevedo
nelle mattine nube-grige
lungo una riva del fiume
prima del san bronze solenne
la figlia, l'arte di thou viene morire
quegli occhi neri i una volta coś elogiato
non dal mondo largo di tutto
in corridoi di sonno avete vagato vicino
vecchio vino da bere
limps con la fermata del passo doloroso

 



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