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african american poetry

nel porto di nuovo York
mi levo in piedi nel tempo grigio freddo
una foschia stava guidando giů
l'odore del č aumentato cosě falso, le spine cosě allineare
un poet, prendente il freno fuori della sua linguetta
la pioggia finito e l'aria brillante
il sole ha fatto un passo giů dal suo throne dorato
dalla finestra un mare degli alberi verdi
vado il mio senso complacently

 



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