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happy birthday poem

ma non posso ora leggerlo
quando i mare-venti hanno perforato i nostri solitudes
il cielo
indietro, giri indietro
il vecchio ovest, il vecchio tempo
se muoio, pensi soltanto questo me
i loro capelli bei
sotto la mia finestra in una via della cittŕ
la figlia, l'arte di thou viene morire
dal pavimento al soffitto
calma come che seconda estate

 



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