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death poetry

ci erano tre nel prato dal ruscello
a che cosa una donna la paragonerà cara
un uccello ha cantato
il sole è in su
ombre alate che scopano vicino
tristemente parlando
la festività reale è stata fatta
vedo tutti gli spiriti umani
non sia arrabbiato con me
le ombre delle navi
ciò è l'arsenale
il dolce con il fern ed è aumentato
ed il mio nome è sincero
e pane del breaketh non di più

 



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