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life poetry

il mio figlio è guasto e sono ciechi andanti
non rimanga nient'altro
fate sentirsi
ottanta anni hanno passato e più
i giorni hypocritic
era un oysterman giovane alto
in qualche luogo ho letto un racconto sconosciuto, vecchio, arrugginito
dio
uno per uno, come va da un albero

 



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