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| India and Puglia, on my desk in Antwerp |
Goodbye and do not read that newspaper, which praised the keeper
if shooting at thieves
snails in the forest fallow or chasing girls
to his lips for a few olive purple
wild in the bush.
may not want this world
even here, in this endless suburbs. And if not the only
our sadness, everything that makes this country as
should not, by itself
alien and out of place there pairs
everything, dropped his spade,
the cloud and on the olive tree
vineyards as a brown sail, yet the green, the fruit
full
lead the effort buried
that winter was here a desert
strains of blacks out of the ground
red swollen with rain like a herd of huge horns
sunk. Just as we live
data that do not mature insoluble.
We started by saying "a priori"
the bottom of the houses, without even confessing
surprise into tears again, and there is destiny
regret the things we
right here with us, as if they were
miles remote.
This I tell you. E 'in one evening
painted on silk which I leave you,
smells of damp and burnt paper
that I start fading per far ritorno fra voi
duro e sofistico come siamo sempre stati.
("Addio e non leggete", Vittorio Bodini, Dopo la luna, 1952-1955)
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