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sorry poem

pensate, il mio ragazzo, quando metto i miei bracci intorno voi
uccelli contro il vento di aprile
uomo freddo severo
tristi sono che conoscono non l'amore
amilo in fine, o se non
i giorni hypocritic
perchč sono le cose che non hanno morte
siete chiari
la notte era nera e drear
lungo le serie
chi chiamerŕ il vento

 



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