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narrative poetry

tristemente parlando
il mio figlio è guasto e sono ciechi andanti
quando il vento funziona contro di noi nell'oscurità
e pane del breaketh non di più
lungamente fa, nel moonlight giovane
rose ed oro
li prevedo
ho scagliato la mia anima all'aria come un volo del falco
amo non troppo bene la mia vita, ma
prima del san bronze solenne

 



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