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poem for pastors

aumentato dai morti
fate non sentirsi
una parola di volo di qui e là
perchè sono le cose che non hanno morte
osservare di là
la neve bisbiglia circa me
questa ciotola d'argento antica di mine
ciò è la canzone della gioventù
il corpo può limitare
ci è un'ora di riposo pacifico
gloom
il più triste dell'anno

 



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