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thanksgiving poem

perchè sono le cose che non hanno morte
fate sentirsi
amo non troppo bene la mia vita, ma
quando i mare-venti hanno perforato i nostri solitudes
la mia anima è un campo arato scuro
con gli occhi meek e marroni
quando un atto è fatto per la libertà
mescolisi
sono vecchio e cieco
ottanta anni hanno passato e più
dato che, se faceste una pausa oggi il mio lato
ancora il suo gray oscilla la torretta sopra il mare

 



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