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death poetry

ora mentre i miei labbri stanno vivendo
rompiamo il vetro di cui vino sacred
perchč cosě triste mio bello?
ciň č l'arsenale
poco parco che attraverso
figlie di tempo
le montagne sono gente silenziosa
per veritŕ, per amore
felicitŕ
il mio dispiacere, quando č qui con me

 



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