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grandmother poem

tristi sono che conoscono non l'amore
il prato stava strisciando
non giri la vostra testa
l'agonia di avere troppa alimentazione
era non per quell'odore singolare
chi chiamerà il vento
la mia madre lo ha insegnato che ogni notte
il sole ha fatto un passo giù dal suo throne dorato

 



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