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thanksgiving poem

ma alas, sogni giusti
nei loro regimentals ragged
perchè allora, il mosto noi vede?
le stelle sono caduto da cielo
nobility della morte ancora
amo rubare per un po'via
all'interno di questa tomba umile un conqueror si trova
il pietoso piccolo, portato, facce ridere
quando le ore del giorno sono numerate
ho sentito tutto il giorno il vento
alti pareti ed enorme

 



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