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mom poem

quelli sul superiore dicono che li conoscono, terra -- sono liars
agito i miei capelli nel vento della mattina
bucks neri grassi in una stanza del vino-barilotto
non c'sono nessuna preda io dei pensieri difficili
ottanta anni hanno passato e più
non posso ora dirvi
morbidamente ora la luce del giorno

 



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