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prose poetry

la mia madre lo ha insegnato che ogni notte
ma non posso ora leggerlo
questi sono
poco parco che attraverso
che cosa noi ora farŕ
chi č il corridore nei cieli
quando il vento funziona contro di noi nell'oscuritŕ
ancora il suo gray oscilla la torretta sopra il mare
la mia anima va placcata nelle cose gorgeous
persino avrebbe suo scherzo
lŕ dalla finestra nella vecchia casa

 



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