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short poem

bucks neri grassi in una stanza del vino-barilotto
veda lo sperimentale
la figlia, l'arte di thou viene morire
le preghiere bianche piccole
la notte è scura ed i venti di inverno
sto morendo
tristemente parlando
per coprire il pensiero ardente
desolato e solo
dai nostri posti nascosti
il padrone dei destini umani sono io
il sole è in su


 



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