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black poetry

cosě perso
semplicemente parlando
la mia madre lo ha insegnato che ogni notte
in qualche luogo ho letto un racconto sconosciuto, vecchio, arrugginito
come candela bianca
dai nostri posti nascosti
dal ponticello rude
che probabilitŕ spiteful ruba i unawares
sono vecchio e cieco
la figlia, l'arte di thou viene morire

 



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