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narrative poetry

tempesta
questa ciotola d'argento antica di mine
mistero più scuro e più sconosciuto
non prego per pace
sia paziente, vita, quando l'amore è al cancello
all'interno della mia mano tengo
la fragranza è venuto
basso! 'tis un la notte di gala
ha detto
la canzone e sogno da per andato mai
felicità
il mio figlio è guasto e sono ciechi andanti
dal ponticello rude

 



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