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funeral poem

non giri la vostra testa
un poet, prendente il freno fuori della sua linguetta
con il tramonto
ma alas, sogni giusti
con gli occhi meek e marroni
o giusta e stately domestica, di cui occhi
e così va
l'alba era verde mela
i poets dicono a
una penna di acciaio
così caduto
lascilo essere triste
che cosa era esso i motori detti
come livellare cade

 



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