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death poetry

de ce sta mereu acolo Frisoane
Babylon unde-i merge vise
in New York Harbor
mama mea sforilor trandafiri-mi ud cu rouă
de atunci, fără
în timp ce stăteam de ascultare, de prost discret
mergand pana, care se încadrează în jos
brusc, din întuneric şi cu frunze moduri de
aer este ca o fluture

 



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