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birthday poetry

la figlia, l'arte di thou viene morire
al lover appassionato
la nerezza ruba le forme di tutte le regine
la mia anima è un campo arato scuro
prenda i miei bracelets
al lato di un campo raso
lucida l'ultima età, il seguente con speranza è visto
dove io trovili
quindi non posso
perchè allora, il mosto noi vede?

 



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