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suicide poetry

sono andati i tre, quelle sorelle rare
non appenda corona
il fratello, sono fuoco
i poets dicono a
amo rubare per un po'via
che cosa era esso i motori detti
per questi bracci bianchi circa il mio collo
veda, da questa falsificazione di lui
una foschia stava guidando gi
aranci di coglitura nubian blu-neri
sono vecchio e cieco

 



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