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black poetry

di ci non era mai un suono al lato il legno ma uno
forse è materia che avete morto
glass-blower di tempo
veda, da questa falsificazione di lui
uplifting, come il vento ha saltato
gli archi del ponticello rosso
behold me, in miei chiffon, garza e canutiglia
fra il fumo e nebbia di un pomeriggio di dicembre
come mi trovo coperto dentro, selezionato dentro
li ha fatti mai sentono parlare

 



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