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child poem

non posso ora dirvi
la mia madre twines me rose bagnate con rugiada
sto morendo
candele che si rovesciano obliquamente in latte del pomodoro
hanno gettato una pietra, voi hanno gettato una pietra
quando un atto è fatto per la libertà
in un vecchio alloggiamento si è illuminato morbidamente
alcuni giorni piĂą ventosi

 



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