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father poem

le montagne sono gente silenziosa
in qualche luogo ho letto un racconto sconosciuto, vecchio, arrugginito
uccelli contro il vento di aprile
questa ciotola d'argento antica di mine
la notte scorsa la luna piena ha posto un panno del bianco
dialo
quando le ore del giorno sono numerate
l'agonia di avere troppa alimentazione
il padrone dei destini umani sono io
la notte era nera e drear

 



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