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thanksgiving poem

questa ciotola d'argento antica di mine
ci erano tre nel prato dal ruscello
la luna aumentante ha nascosto le stelle
i corridoi di marmo resounding lunghi
perchè sono le cose che non hanno morte
improvvisamente, dai sensi scuri e frondosi
quale si conservare
lucida l'ultima età, il seguente con speranza è visto
abbiamo nessuno shame?
scuro-eyed
mille anni silenziosi fa

 



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