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thanksgiving poetry

se muoio, pensi soltanto questo me
nobility della morte ancora
improvvisamente, dai sensi scuri e frondosi
questa ciotola d'argento antica di mine
ci è un paese in pieno di vino
dicami non
desolato e solo
da me indegno e sconosciuto
un poet, prendente il freno fuori della sua linguetta
il più triste dell'anno

 



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