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narrative poetry

dal ponticello rude
cara moglie
agito i miei capelli nel vento della mattina
persino avrebbe suo scherzo
quegli occhi neri i una volta cosě elogiato
osservare di lŕ
ha detto
behold me, in miei chiffon, garza e canutiglia
buona donna
dalla finestra un mare degli alberi verdi
perchč allora, il mosto noi vede?
abbiamo nessuno shame?

 



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