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writing poetry

non brucio incenso
ha scoppiato il vino feroce
il prato stava strisciando
il lampo ha esposto a flash ed ha alzato
ho sentito tutto il giorno il vento
cantili ancora alla canzone cantati
come lui di chi spirito nella fiammata del mezzogiorno
ho entrato nel deserto perché la mia anima č athirst
veda, rinviano
ho visto la prima pera

 



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