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dark poetry

la figlia, l'arte di thou viene morire
č ci qualcuno lŕ
nei numeri mournful
sopra il fiume, sulla collina
le canzoni antiche
forse č materia che avete morto
ciň č la canzone della gioventů
quando le ore del giorno sono numerate
limps con la fermata del passo doloroso
agito i miei capelli nel vento della mattina
facce belle e tragical
ho detto
sopra il fiume beckon a me

 



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