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poetry book

la figlia, l'arte di thou viene morire
dai nostri posti nascosti
glass-blower di tempo
gloom
ho lanciato il mondo
osservare di lŕ
amilo in fine, o se non
siete vivi?
come livellare cade
ho sentito tutto il giorno il vento
ho detto
i loro capelli bei
la musica i si č sentita con voi era piů della musica
la donna molto ha mancato, come denominate a me, chiamata a me

 



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