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son poem

la mia madre lo ha insegnato che ogni notte
tempesta
sotto la luna della raccolta
perchč sono le cose che non hanno morte
risiedo alla montagna della tabella
era un oysterman giovane alto
improvvisamente, dai sensi scuri e frondosi
il prato stava strisciando
ho fatto una volta soltanto un voto, uno
gloom
portimi la canzone morbida
č venuto prenderlo dalla mano

 



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