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fiori dei bambini
buona donna
sopra il fiume beckon a me
tristi sono che conoscono non l'amore
uno per uno, come va da un albero
mai in tutta la mia vita
la mia madre lo ha insegnato che ogni notte
era molte e molto un anno fa
fra il fumo e nebbia di un pomeriggio di dicembre
le preghiere bianche piccole
il mio dispiacere, quando è qui con me
candele che si rovesciano obliquamente in latte del pomodoro

 



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