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birthday poetry

portimi la canzone morbida
stuff della luna
la mia madre lo ha insegnato che ogni notte
chi è il corridore nei cieli
non ci è fuga dal fiume
bucks neri grassi in una stanza del vino-barilotto
scattando in su, cadendo
osservare di là
perchè così triste mio bello?
uno per uno, come va da un albero

 



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