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sotto la luna della raccolta
non si addolori che finito
la mia anima va placcata nelle cose gorgeous
ora
sono vecchio e cieco
morbidamente piangendo
dove io trovili
rumori che si sforzano strapparsi
vecchio vino da bere
la notte è scura ed i venti di inverno
molto bene, voi liberali
il singolo pugno serrato alzato e ready
non giri la vostra testa

 



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