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prose poetry

come come le stelle è questo il bianco, facce nameless
ora che mi sono raffreddato a voi
chi è il corridore nei cieli
faccialo rotare giù dal prato
in sua tenda custodita
ho vinto la corsa
conosco che cosa state andando dire
e pane del breaketh non di più
come lui di chi spirito nella fiammata del mezzogiorno
l'alba era verde mela
la figlia, l'arte di thou viene morire
dal mare scintillante

 



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