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math poem

lascilo essere triste
il padrone dei destini umani sono io
la penso splendido giusto
città che non è una città
la signora, il vostro cuore si è girata verso polvere
non giri la vostra testa
i giorni hypocritic
rumori che si sforzano strapparsi
chi è il corridore nei cieli
è spesso non così?
nelle mattine nube-grige
alcuni giorni piĂą ventosi

 



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