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death poetry

nel porto di nuovo York
siete svegli?
cosě caduto
faccialo rotare giů dal prato
non rimanga nient'altro
ombre alate che scopano vicino
sotto la luna della raccolta
ho visto che hunched e rabbrividendo sulle pietre
come lui di chi spirito nella fiammata del mezzogiorno
notte mysterious
che cosa noi ora farŕ
semplicitŕ
questa ciotola d'argento antica di mine

 



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