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black poetry

perchč sono le cose che non hanno morte
le ombre delle navi
lungo le serie
cosě caduto
l'aria č piena l'alba del e la molla
sotto il foglio dusky dell'alloro
tranquillamente, con il reverance, nel awe
ha scoppiato il vino feroce
quando i mare-venti hanno perforato i nostri solitudes
la luce ritirata
calma come che seconda estate
nel gather di nerezza e chiedono

 



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