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sympathy poem

behold me, in miei chiffon, garza e canutiglia
andato prima di noi
chi chiamerà il vento
dicami
ci situiamo
sotto il timone del guerriero
ho visto i archangels nel mio mela-albero la notte scorsa
sto morendo
come lui di chi spirito nella fiammata del mezzogiorno
l'odore del è aumentato così falso, le spine così allineare

 



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