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funeral poem

ciò è l'arsenale
quando la notte va alla deriva lungo le vie della città
una tempesta sta guidando sulla marea
e pane del breaketh non di più
poco parco che attraverso
mondo che cambia sotto la mia mano
nella sfera
le vecchie canzoni
quegli occhi neri i una volta così elogiato
movimento del vostro corpo è come musica
stuff della luna
perchè allora, il mosto noi vede?
la gradisco
nelle mattine nube-grige

 



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