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sad poetry

poiché ho ritenuto il senso della morte
bucks neri grassi in una stanza del vino-barilotto
sopra i tetti corra le ombre delle nubi
la figlia, l'arte di thou viene morire
ho avuto un sogno e mi sono svegliato con esso
impaurito nient'altro, dico
chi chiamerĂ  il vento
prima del san bronze solenne
glooms delle viv-quercie
e pane del breaketh non di piĂą

 



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