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math poem

la mia anima è un campo arato scuro
prenda i miei bracelets
poco parco che attraverso
ottanta anni hanno passato e più
perchè sono le cose che non hanno morte
appena come mie barrette su queste chiavi
ci è un paese in pieno di vino
ha sentito i bambini giocare al sole
in tutte le cose non parlate di
lascilo essere triste
ci erano tre nel prato dal ruscello
chi è il corridore nei cieli

 



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