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son poem

noi che si sono levati in piedi
sono andato su e giů le vie
in settembre
chi chiamerŕ il vento
il prato stava strisciando
quale si conservare
vi ricordate di
musing, fra il tramonto e l'oscuritŕ
le vecchie canzoni
morbidamente piangendo
quando ho esaminato i vostri occhi
desolato e solo
un'ombra grigia sottile sul bordo di pensiero

 



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