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sorry poem

faccio la mia protezione, ma nessuno sa
dialo
non brucio incenso
il mio dispiacere, quando è qui con me
i loro capelli bei
ad alcuno i dii grassi
perchè sono le cose che non hanno morte
il cielo
braided e tessuto
forse è materia che avete morto
all'interno di questa tomba umile un conqueror si trova
vedrò stasera una stella
potrebbe conoscerla nella molla piĂą in anticipo

 



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