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son poem

non posso ora dirvi
fino alla sua finestra dell'alloggiamento
scattando in su, cadendo
se muoio, pensi soltanto questo me
questi cuori sono stati tessuti delle gioie umane e cure
veda, da questa falsificazione di lui
un poet, prendente il freno fuori della sua linguetta
lungo una riva del fiume
ho fatto una volta soltanto un voto, uno
lo ho visto una volta prima

 



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