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best love poem

la mia anima è un campo arato scuro
e con l'uccello di ronzio
risiedo alla montagna della tabella
quegli occhi neri i una volta così elogiato
non ci è moltitudine, comunque guardato e teso
gloom
noi che si sono levati in piedi
impaurito nient'altro, dico
gli archi del ponticello rosso
per allora senza
chi è il corridore nei cieli

 



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