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angel poem

la figlia, l'arte di thou viene morire
i corridoi di marmo resounding lunghi
amavo una donna
e mentre abbiamo camminato l'erba debolmente è stata mescolata
nella terra silenziosa
non dal mondo largo di tutto
la nerezza
ma alas, sogni giusti
oscillato nella culla del profondo
quando ero si è rotto a Londra
mai in tutta la mia vita

 



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