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La pioggia batte a macchina

sui fogli della strada

la lettera d’inverno

di un dio delle sue lacrime

che asciutto detta a terra

parole che si fanno

bestemmie nelle bocche

degli angeli d’asfalto

                                                                                                                           Quale morte ci attende

                                                                                                                                         domani…?

                                                                                                                       Quale tasto fermerà il respiro

                                                                                                                                      nell’eterno…?

                                                                                                                      Interrotto da rumore un canto

                                                                                                                                            muto

                                                                                                                       Chiedo abbozzi del disegno

                                                                                                                                            linee

                                                                                                                         Basterebbero i contorni

                                                                                                                                     a darmi pace

Il suono sulla carta

un tuono soffocato

ritorna alle sue nuvole

per eco inascoltato

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