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pumpkin poem

era non per quell'odore singolare
perchè sono le cose che non hanno morte
ha scoppiato il vino feroce
la pioggia finito e l'aria brillante
sedendosi nel suo attuatore che aspetta il vostro tè
ottanta anni hanno passato e più
il mio figlio è guasto e sono ciechi andanti
tutti si acquietano lungo il potomac

 



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