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poetry poem

un'ombra grigia sottile sul bordo di pensiero
non giri la vostra testa
alcuni dei hurts che avete curato
il corpo puň limitare
travails della terra
ho fatto una volta soltanto un voto, uno
stuff della luna
sopra il fiume beckon a me
sposti la terra in tempo nuvoloso
perchč cosě triste mio bello?
perchč sono le cose che non hanno morte
siete chiari

 



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