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prose poetry

passando tramite le pareti huddled ed ugly
al lato di un campo raso
era una bellezza nei giorni
un uccello ha cantato
morbidamente ora la luce del giorno
behold me, in miei chiffon, garza e canutiglia
la notte scura ed i venti di inverno
la mia anima un campo arato scuro
perch allora, il mosto noi vede?

 



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