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suicide poetry

la mia madre lo ha insegnato che ogni notte
facce belle e tragical
il piů triste dell'anno
perchč allora, il mosto noi vede?
cittŕ che non č una cittŕ
quindi non posso
osservare di lŕ
amico, di cui il sorriso č venuto essere
era molte e molto un anno fa
mi sono levato in piedi
se muoio, pensi soltanto questo me
figlie di tempo
nelle mattine nube-grige
alla mezzanotte

 



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