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death poem

forse
come livellare cade
fra il fumo e nebbia di un pomeriggio di dicembre
non c'sono nessuna preda io dei pensieri difficili
in un vecchio alloggiamento si è illuminato morbidamente
chi è il corridore nei cieli
poiché ho ritenuto il senso della morte
candele che si rovesciano obliquamente in latte del pomodoro
indietro, giri indietro

 



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