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thanksgiving poem

alcuni giorni più ventosi
la mia anima è un campo arato scuro
quanto selvaggio, come strega-come bizzarro che la vita dovrebbe essere
e pane del breaketh non di più
quegli occhi neri i una volta così elogiato
amo la mia ora di vento e di luce
lucida l'ultima età, il seguente con speranza è visto
morbido come la base nella terra
se fossi molto sicuro
ci è un'ora di riposo pacifico
li ho sentiti nella notte

 



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