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poem for dad

la mia anima č un campo arato scuro
poiché ho ritenuto il senso della morte
il giorno č fatto
ci erano tre nel prato dal ruscello
non dal mondo largo di tutto
perchč sono le cose che non hanno morte
potremmo ma sapere
agito i miei capelli nel vento della mattina
quale desidero rilevare
guardi indietro con gli occhi longing e sappia che seguirň
a volte mi domando se č realmente allineare
ma non posso ora leggerlo

 



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