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poem

questi sono
sedendosi nel suo attuatore che aspetta il vostro tè
era l'autunno dell'anno
i loro capelli bei
il più triste dell'anno
la pioggia finito e l'aria brillante
poiché ho ritenuto il senso della morte
sopra il fiume beckon a me
del sole né stelle
ma alas, sogni giusti
un miglio dietro

 



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