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footprint poem

alla mezzanotte
ancora tredici anni
sto morendo
la festività reale è stata fatta
in un vecchio alloggiamento si è illuminato morbidamente
se muoio, pensi soltanto questo me
candele che si rovesciano obliquamente in latte del pomodoro
da solo
i poets dicono a
come come le stelle è questo il bianco, facce nameless
nella terra silenziosa
nella sfera
devo dire buona notte

 



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