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prose poetry

la mia madre twines me rose bagnate con rugiada
con i suoi capelli che flaying sfrenatamente
di ci non era mai un suono al lato il legno ma uno
in qualche luogo ho letto un racconto sconosciuto, vecchio, arrugginito
stuff della luna
senza sosta
il vecchio ovest, il vecchio tempo
splendor dolce
dicami non

 



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