It was the night
Orange ellipses, blurred suns from the mines of the north illuminate
the ragamuffin with his torn braces. Behind the curtain of red malafare, whispers a TV set still on
He makes us laugh, the ragamuffin, he reminds us of childhood stories,
when we we used to rush the night
and tasted food covered in strange jellies.
The faces all around had silver halos, tired and huddled behind the bed as they
they waited for the end of the frisson unleashed by the last demon of the night.
Severity and firmness, even mockery that deadens sleep, hisses bouncing off the newly whitewashed walls.
Despite everything, affection for the fathers in the dreamed future does not fade.
It was the night
"Sei tutto fumo e niente arrosto!" E allora? Anche il fumo è figlio di Dio. Nelle sue spirali dell'apocalisse si nascondono le sagome lunari di maestri in livrea e le facce pallide dei ribelli del servo encomio. Il fumo è l'occhio del ciclone, l'arrosto è il ventre gonfio di parole e non ammette languide rivoluzioni, ma solo offerte di guerra
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