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mom poem

č spesso non cosě?
lŕ dalla finestra nella vecchia casa
il pietoso piccolo, portato, facce ridere
la figlia, l'arte di thou viene morire
persino avrebbe suo scherzo
quando ho esaminato i vostri occhi
ha detto
il lampo ha esposto a flash ed ha alzato
agito i miei capelli nel vento della mattina
come esso
e come potreste sogno della riunione

 



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