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life poem

sto morendo
i poets dicono a
travails della terra
quindi non posso
un miglio dietro
siete bei e sbiaditi
e pane del breaketh non di piĂą
facce belle e tragical
potremmo ma sapere
lungamente fa, nel moonlight giovane
una foschia stava guidando giĂą
conosco non dove
e con l'uccello di ronzio
fino alla sua finestra dell'alloggiamento

 



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