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narrative poetry

come le aquile sul high alto
sto morendo
l'alba era verde mela
passando tramite le pareti huddled ed ugly
la mia anima va placcata nelle cose gorgeous
un poet, prendente il freno fuori della sua linguetta
alti pareti ed enorme
non eravamo molti
è ci qualcuno là
ho detto, io ho chiuso il mio cuore

 



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