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concrete poetry

la sua faccia č giusta e liscia e fine
amo la mia ora di vento e di luce
in qualche luogo ho letto un racconto sconosciuto, vecchio, arrugginito
bello
non si addolori che finito
fra il fumo e nebbia di un pomeriggio di dicembre
i giorni malinconici sono venuto
perchč cosě triste mio bello?
era l'autunno dell'anno
quando ho rinviato al tramonto
ho scagliato la mia anima all'aria come un volo del falco

 



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