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poem for pastors

vecchio vino da bere
appena come mie barrette su queste chiavi
stuff della luna
ombre alate che scopano vicino
un poet, prendente il freno fuori della sua linguetta
li ha fatti mai sentono parlare
una penna di acciaio
ottanta anni hanno passato e piĂą
dai nostri posti nascosti
perchè
possono comunicare di amore in un cottage
dal ponticello rude

 



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