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mother poem

pentru aceste arme albe despre gâtul meu
cand vii in seara asta
oraş că nu este un oraş
au aruncat o piatră, ai aruncat o piatră
de mal, de mării
deces al nobilimii din nou
I sta în frig gri vreme
dumnezeu
sub lună plină

 



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