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modern poetry

truely
benchè sia piccolo come tutte le cose piccole
mille anni silenziosi fa
candele che si rovesciano obliquamente in latte del pomodoro
quando ero si è rotto a Londra
poiché ho ritenuto il senso della morte
uno per uno, come va da un albero
fra il fumo e nebbia di un pomeriggio di dicembre
di ci non era mai un suono al lato il legno ma uno
dal puntello, dal mare
improvvisamente, dai sensi scuri e frondosi
il padrone dei destini umani sono io
persino avrebbe suo scherzo

 



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