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thanksgiving poetry

è venuto prenderlo dalla mano
provato nel glimmer nei vostri occhi
come lui di chi spirito nella fiammata del mezzogiorno
come le aquile sul high alto
forse è materia che avete morto
era non per quell'odore singolare
ottanta anni hanno passato e più
lascilo muoversi lentamente tramite la via
quale desidero rilevare

 



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