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tristi sono che conoscono non l'amore
per allora senza
dicami non
quando libertà dalla sua altezza della montagna
candele che si rovesciano obliquamente in latte del pomodoro
sto morendo
ci erano tre nel prato dal ruscello
così caduto
era molte e molto un anno fa
fate non sentirsi
tutti si acquietano lungo il potomac
nel porto di nuovo York

 



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