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thanksgiving poem

passato inesorabile di thou
l'odore del è aumentato così falso, le spine così allineare
in vostri bracci era il piacere tranquillo
dal ponticello rude
non brucio incenso
quale desidero rilevare
amavo una donna
la neve bisbiglia circa me
il merriment infinito e insensato delle stelle
le verità terribili questi sono
le stelle sono caduto da cielo

 



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