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prose poetry

non c'sono nessuna preda io dei pensieri difficili
uccelli contro il vento di aprile
penso spesso alla cittĂ  bella
uno per uno, come va da un albero
sopra il fiume beckon a me
perchè così triste mio bello?
vedrò stasera una stella
tre giorni li ho sentiti addolorarsi quando mi situo completamente
dicami piĂą di meno o dicami di piĂą

 



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