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grandmother poem

nobility della morte ancora
ombre alate che scopano vicino
se lo slayer rosso pensa slays
le veritŕ terribili questi sono
conosco non dove
mescolisi
quando le ore del giorno sono numerate
per questi bracci bianchi circa il mio collo
sono il vento che esita
perchč allora, il mosto noi vede?
il mio dispiacere, quando č qui con me

 



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