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baby poem

non posso ritenere sempre il suo greatness
travails della terra
amilo in fine, o se non
per questi bracci bianchi circa il mio collo
che probabilitŕ spiteful ruba i unawares
alti pareti ed enorme
il bambino che ha gettato via il foglio dopo il foglio
nelle mattine nube-grige
lascili pity coloro di che sia migliore fuori che noi sono
la mia anima č un campo arato scuro

 



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