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poetry poem

veda lo sperimentale
sono il vento che esita
mescolisi
nel vostro volo
la mia madre lo ha insegnato che ogni notte
tristemente parlando
in qualche luogo ho letto un racconto sconosciuto, vecchio, arrugginito
sole e vento e battimento del mare
siete bei e sbiaditi
sonno, fratello grigio della morte
nelle mattine nube-grige
perchè allora, il mosto noi vede?
forse è materia che avete morto
là dalla finestra nella vecchia casa

 



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