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baby poem

ottanta anni hanno passato e più
gloom
quindi non posso
quanto selvaggio, come strega-come bizzarro che la vita dovrebbe essere
il prato stava strisciando
nelle mattine nube-grige
e come potreste sogno della riunione
buona donna
behold me, in miei chiffon, garza e canutiglia
all'interno di questa tomba umile un conqueror si trova

 



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