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narrative poetry

se esso
ci sono tre sensi in cui gli uomini prendono
il mio dispiacere, quando qui con me
candele che si rovesciano obliquamente in latte del pomodoro
ci la nave della perla
chi chiamer il vento
il rullo triste del tamburo desonorizzato ha battimento
tutti dentro e tutti senza di me
morbidamente piangendo
siete chiari
questa ciotola d'argento antica di mine
quando ho rinviato al tramonto

 



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