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thanksgiving poem

ho detto, io ho chiuso il mio cuore
ora per una lotta attiva e cheerful
ma non posso ora leggerlo
ha detto
dal ponticello rude
la pioggia finito e l'aria brillante
se muoio, pensi soltanto questo me
chi è il corridore nei cieli
quando il velare dagli occhi è alzato
e come potreste sogno della riunione
il mio figlio è guasto e sono ciechi andanti
questa ciotola d'argento antica di mine
come candela bianca
la figlia, l'arte di thou viene morire

 



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