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type of poetry

era un oysterman giovane alto
perchč allora, il mosto noi vede?
mondo che cambia sotto la mia mano
la pioggia finito e l'aria brillante
non dal mondo largo di tutto
le preghiere bianche piccole
qui cade nessuna luce
ho visto la prima pera
braided e tessuto
ottanta anni hanno passato e piů
mi levo in piedi nel tempo grigio freddo
nobility della morte ancora

 



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