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poem for pastors

in vostri bracci era il piacere tranquillo
appena come mie barrette su queste chiavi
esistere dello swan
questa ciotola d'argento antica di mine
deve andare indietro, ha detto
come livellare cade
ad alcuno i dii grassi
il piů triste dell'anno
ora che mi sono raffreddato a voi

 



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