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la mia anima è un campo arato scuro
il rullo triste del tamburo desonorizzato ha battimento
lo ho visto una volta prima
quale desidero rilevare
quando ho rinviato al tramonto
in vostri bracci era il piacere tranquillo
alla mezzanotte
diami la fame
un poet, prendente il freno fuori della sua linguetta
a che cosa una donna la paragonerà cara
nel vostro volo

 



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