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gothic poetry

fra il fumo e nebbia di un pomeriggio di dicembre
forse è materia che avete morto
scuro-eyed
il mio figlio è guasto e sono ciechi andanti
lascilo muoversi lentamente tramite la via
ora che mi sono raffreddato a voi
le canzoni antiche
ma non posso ora leggerlo
le montagne sono gente silenziosa
li prevedo
esprimiamo le nostre passioni piĂą basse
sentite la pioggia?
nel porto di nuovo York

 



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