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prose poetry

sotto la mia finestra in una via della città
la mia anima è un campo arato scuro
alcuni dei hurts che avete curato
ancora il suo gray oscilla la torretta sopra il mare
agito i miei capelli nel vento della mattina
stuff della luna
amo la mia ora di vento e di luce
fate sentirsi
aumentato dai morti
ottanta anni hanno passato e più
per questi bracci bianchi circa il mio collo

 



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