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black poetry

sto morendo
perchè sono le cose che non hanno morte
le vecchie canzoni
mondo che cambia sotto la mia mano
fino alla sua finestra dell'alloggiamento
quindi non posso
non rimanga nient'altro
il prato stava strisciando
rinnovi la visione di piacere
il sole è in su
per guardare tutto il giorno l'onda blu arricciarsi e rompersi

 



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