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un poet, prendente il freno fuori della sua linguetta
le tonalità della notte stavano cadendo velocemente
sonno dolce nelle vostre tombe humble
vi ricordate di
come candela bianca
una volta questo tappeto erboso molle
la terra mantiene certo andare di vibrazione
lascili pity coloro di che sia migliore fuori che noi sono
lungo le serie
questa ciotola d'argento antica di mine
la mia anima è un campo arato scuro

 



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