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thanksgiving poem

bucks neri grassi in una stanza del vino-barilotto
nelle mattine nube-grige
l'odore del č aumentato cosģ falso, le spine cosģ allineare
non prego per pace
agito i miei capelli nel vento della mattina
ha incurvato l'inondazione
che probabilitą spiteful ruba i unawares
dai nostri posti nascosti
i cieli che erano ashen e sobrio
figlie di tempo
non rimanga nient'altro
ora

 



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