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elements of poetry

mi chiedono dove sono stato
sotto la mia finestra in una via della cittĂ 
sono fevered
uccelli contro il vento di aprile
sto morendo
dai prati ricchi con cereale
ho sentito tutto il giorno il vento
perchè allora, il mosto noi vede?
all'interno della mia mano tengo
una storia molto notevole questo è
nel porto di nuovo York
sonno, fratello grigio della morte

 



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