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romantic poem

non eravamo molti
i giorni malinconici sono venuto
scuro-eyed
dove io trovili
sonno, fratello grigio della morte
non ho saputo mai che la terra ha avuta cosě tanto oro
candele che si rovesciano obliquamente in latte del pomodoro
quando ero si č rotto a Londra
ho fatto una pausa la stoffa per tendine aperta
sto morendo

 



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