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father poem

pensate, il mio ragazzo, quando metto i miei bracci intorno voi
ascolti
come lui di chi spirito nella fiammata del mezzogiorno
all'interno della mia mano tengo
corsa alto-sopportata
la gradisco
e con l'uccello di ronzio
dal sud alla rottura del giorno
li ho detestati
il bambino che ha gettato via il foglio dopo il foglio
gaily attraverso i campi abbiamo ballato
era una bellezza nei giorni

 



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