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son poem

il pietoso piccolo, portato, facce ridere
bello
uccelli contro il vento di aprile
e con l'uccello di ronzio
quanto selvaggio, come strega-come bizzarro che la vita dovrebbe essere
il corpo può limitare
tutto l'mio amore per il mio dolce
le navi stanno trovandosi nella baia
per guardare tutto il giorno l'onda blu arricciarsi e rompersi
sto morendo
vi ricordate di
tutti dentro e tutti senza di me

 



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