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poetry poem

ora
senza dubbio mi ricordo di ancora
poiché ho ritenuto il senso della morte
l'alba era verde mela
il prato stava strisciando
la figlia, l'arte di thou viene morire
quando ero si è rotto a Londra
sia in me come gli atteggiamenti eternal
noi che si sono levati in piedi

 



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