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son poem

vecchio vino da bere
il padrone dei destini umani sono io
a che cosa una donna la paragonerĂ  cara
sono il vento che esita
ho scagliato la mia anima all'aria come un volo del falco
così caduto
bello
un uccello ha cantato
una pesca piccola nel frutteto si è sviluppata
nei numeri mournful
non sia falso
sotto la luna della raccolta
che cosa era esso i motori detti

 



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