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sono vecchio e cieco
sto morendo
lascilo muoversi lentamente tramite la via
fiori dei bambini
perchè allora, il mosto noi vede?
una penna di acciaio
aumentato dai morti
il merriment infinito e insensato delle stelle
ci è un paese in pieno di vino
scuro-eyed
i giorni hypocritic
fate sentirsi
hanno gettato una pietra, voi hanno gettato una pietra
forse

 



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