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son poem

quindi non posso
ciň č l'arsenale
candele che si rovesciano obliquamente in latte del pomodoro
il giorno č fatto
i cieli che erano ashen e sobrio
le navi stanno trovandosi nella baia
sotto il timone del guerriero
notte mysterious
bucks neri grassi in una stanza del vino-barilotto
il sole č in su
sopra il fiume beckon a me
ho fatto una volta soltanto un voto, uno

 



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