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travails della terra
vi ricordate di
dolce e forte
sonno dolce nelle vostre tombe humble
là dalla finestra nella vecchia casa
che cosa era esso i motori detti
la figlia, l'arte di thou viene morire
questi sono
mi domando dove vivete
ha incurvato l'inondazione
agito i miei capelli nel vento della mattina

 



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