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thanksgiving poetry

perchè sono le cose che non hanno morte
quando libertà dalla sua altezza della montagna
mi domando dove vivete
ancora il suo gray oscilla la torretta sopra il mare
i nostri momenti piacevoli volano
se lo slayer rosso pensa slays
la terra mantiene certo andare di vibrazione
devo dire buona notte
forse
quanto selvaggio, come strega-come bizzarro che la vita dovrebbe essere

 



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