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concrete poetry

quando i mare-venti hanno perforato i nostri solitudes
fiore bianco della gomma piuma, fiore rosso della fiamma
ultima mezzanotte
un poet, prendente il freno fuori della sua linguetta
non sia falso
sole e vento e battimento del mare
li prevedo
improvvisamente, dai sensi scuri e frondosi
desolato e solo
la notte era nera e drear
fate non sentirsi
fra le montagne ho vagato

 



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