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angel poem

un poet, prendente il freno fuori della sua linguetta
dice a di buoni vecchi periodi
siete vivi?
nel vostro volo
mistero più scuro e più sconosciuto
la figlia, l'arte di thou viene morire
vivo dalla riva del fiume
bucks neri grassi in una stanza del vino-barilotto
senza dubbio mi ricordo di ancora
su e giù va
ombre alate che scopano vicino

 



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