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autumn poetry

il mio figlio è guasto e sono ciechi andanti
amilo in fine, o se non
poco parco che attraverso
siete chiari
in un vecchio alloggiamento si è illuminato morbidamente
che cosa era esso i motori detti
per questi bracci bianchi circa il mio collo
poiché ho ritenuto il senso della morte
uno con voi
e mentre abbiamo camminato l'erba debolmente è stata mescolata
e pane del breaketh non di più

 



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