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cowboy poetry

agito i miei capelli nel vento della mattina
perch allora, il mosto noi vede?
fino alla sua finestra dell'alloggiamento
amo non troppo bene la mia vita, ma
sotto un albero di diffusione della castagna
tutti dentro e tutti senza di me
un poet, prendente il freno fuori della sua linguetta
le preghiere bianche piccole
e pane del breaketh non di pi
oscillato nella culla del profondo
lasci una conservazione di gioia voi

 



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