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death poem

non ci è moltitudine, comunque guardato e teso
come esso
rompiamo il vetro di cui vino sacred
fra il fumo e nebbia di un pomeriggio di dicembre
il sole ha fatto un passo giù dal suo throne dorato
la luce ritirata
dai nostri posti nascosti
con i suoi capelli che flaying sfrenatamente
amico, di cui il sorriso è venuto essere
questi cuori sono stati tessuti delle gioie umane e cure
bucks neri grassi in una stanza del vino-barilotto

 



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