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poetry poem

nelle mattine nube-grige
il piĂą triste dell'anno
non ci è moltitudine, comunque guardato e teso
ci è un'ora di riposo pacifico
perchè allora, il mosto noi vede?
mistero piĂą scuro e piĂą sconosciuto
vecchio vino da bere
il mio dispiacere, quando è qui con me
improvvisamente, dai sensi scuri e frondosi
hanno gettato una pietra, voi hanno gettato una pietra
la mia anima è un campo arato scuro

 



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