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memorial poem

faccialo rotare giů dal prato
glass-blower di tempo
sotto la luna della raccolta
se esso
conosco che cosa state andando dire
behold me, in miei chiffon, garza e canutiglia
le veritŕ terribili questi sono
i drowses pallidi di giorno sull'occidentale bagnano
dal puntello, dal mare
una parola di volo di qui e lŕ
ero un goddess ere il marmo lo ha trovato

 



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