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child poem

sono il vento che esita
ha scoppiato il vino feroce
la figlia, l'arte di thou viene morire
una foschia stava guidando giů
dal puntello, dal mare
in vostri bracci era il piacere tranquillo
se muoio, pensi soltanto questo me
braided e tessuto
migliori che il granito
il cielo
ultima mezzanotte
il prato stava strisciando

 



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