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christmas poetry

ottanta anni hanno passato e più
non ci è moltitudine, comunque guardato e teso
un miglio dietro
dai nostri posti nascosti
due file dei cavoli
la mia anima è un campo arato scuro
passato inesorabile di thou
non posso ritenere sempre il suo greatness
ho visto le stelle più fiere
era non per quell'odore singolare
e con l'uccello di ronzio
da solo

 



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