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lost love poem

li ho detestati
ci è una città, builded da nessuna mano
lungamente fa, nel moonlight giovane
un poet, prendente il freno fuori della sua linguetta
mi levo in piedi nel tempo grigio freddo
aumentato dai morti
come lui di chi spirito nella fiammata del mezzogiorno
gaily attraverso i campi abbiamo ballato
un miglio dietro
i poets dicono a
perchè allora, il mosto noi vede?
non posso ritenere sempre il suo greatness
desolato e solo
rumori che si sforzano strapparsi

 



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