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short poem

perchè sono le cose che non hanno morte
nella sfera
come esso
amo rubare per un po'via
uno sguardo è ma un raggio
questa ciotola d'argento antica di mine
il pietoso piccolo, portato, facce ridere
come un uomo nudo io va
uccelli contro il vento di aprile
penso spesso alla città bella
fra le montagne ho vagato

 



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