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gothic poetry

mondo che cambia sotto la mia mano
dio
non sia falso
amo non troppo bene la mia vita, ma
quando i mare-venti hanno perforato i nostri solitudes
potremmo ma sapere
quando libertĂ  dalla sua altezza della montagna
ho visto che il dio voi lo dubita?
era l'autunno dell'anno
sono il vento che esita
rumori che si sforzano strapparsi
agito i miei capelli nel vento della mattina

 



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