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short love poem

behold me, in miei chiffon, garza e canutiglia
nei numeri mournful
lungamente fa, nel moonlight giovane
candele che si rovesciano obliquamente in latte del pomodoro
era una bellezza nei giorni
sono il vento che esita
e mentre abbiamo camminato l'erba debolmente stata mescolata
ha scoppiato il vino feroce
per coprire il pensiero ardente
all'interno di questa tomba umile un conqueror si trova

 



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