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sad death poem

non brucio incenso
mondo che cambia sotto la mia mano
come lui di chi spirito nella fiammata del mezzogiorno
ho lanciato il mondo
ma non posso ora leggerlo
ho vinto la corsa
candele che si rovesciano obliquamente in latte del pomodoro
all'interno di questa tomba umile un conqueror si trova
per questi bracci bianchi circa il mio collo
la sua faccia è giusta e liscia e fine
non c'sono nessuna preda io dei pensieri difficili

 



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