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suicide poetry

non posso ora dirvi
la notte era nera e drear
in pieno delle rotture
sono andati i tre, quelle sorelle rare
e pane del breaketh non di piĂą
sono il vento che esita
che cosa io devono voi
una tempesta sta guidando sulla marea
forse è materia che avete morto
ha scoppiato il vino feroce
e mentre abbiamo camminato l'erba debolmente è stata mescolata

 



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