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baby poem

Doamna, inima ta-a-a făcut praf
de ce sunt lucrurile pe care nu au nici un deces
de sub fereastra mea într-un oraş de strada
Urni
chestii din luna
o rază de aur în beznă şi gri
da-mi foamea
pentru aceste arme albe despre gâtul meu

 



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