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poem for dad

in possa
quando ero si è rotto a Londra
amo non troppo bene la mia vita, ma
un poet, prendente il freno fuori della sua linguetta
bucks neri grassi in una stanza del vino-barilotto
ascolti il mare suonante
amilo in fine, o se non
chi chiamerà il vento
ed ancora hanno camminato sopra
guardi indietro con gli occhi longing e sappia che seguirò

 



Poetry news via Google, MSN, and Yahoo!

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  • Questions/Answers (Inland Valley Daily Bulletin)
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  • Library patrons help make county a wonderful place - The Union of Grass Valley
  • Charlotte Higgins on the literary influences of ancient Greece (Guardian Unlimited)
  • Man apart - Manila Times
  • Black poet, journalist advised young Obama - Honolulu Advertiser
  • The best place to watch language evolve - Guardian Unlimited
  • ‘John Adams,’ ‘Mad Men’ Big Winners at Creative Arts Emmys - Multichannel News
  • Auction of killer's personal items prompts call to change prison rules - Daily Gleaner
  • Company Aims to Revive Heavenly Music - The Epoch Times
 

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