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autumn poem

questa ciotola d'argento antica di mine
la neve bisbiglia circa me
il prato stava strisciando
dove io trovili
il lampo ha esposto a flash ed ha alzato
all'alba, ha detto
la figlia, l'arte di thou viene morire
un poet, prendente il freno fuori della sua linguetta
in possa
ci uno che quella i amava una volta cos tanto
uccelli contro il vento di aprile

 



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