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questa ciotola d'argento antica di mine
tristemente parlando
non c'sono nessuna preda io dei pensieri difficili
poco parco che attraverso
sceso all'alba dalle colline windless
prenda i miei bracelets
lungamente fa, nel moonlight giovane
bucks neri grassi in una stanza del vino-barilotto
sto morendo
l'alba era verde mela
la nerezza rotola verso l'alto

 



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