the feet of verses has frostbite
imminent will be amputated, and again…
until will remain a body of a syllable
a diphthong, lament of letter
so cold inspires the white of the paper today
almost all of the letters claim a hat, as ă and â (romanian letters)
also ask scarves, gloves, even mulled wine
I wonder – but how it will write poems tonight?
– Give him hell, not see how much poetry flowing from the trees?
you do not see how the rains are hoary?
of wood by pencil, you to do skis and go
people are waiting for the Christmas carols and… you’re wasting graphite and paper
you put all the letters in the breast, without them you cannot enter in the spring, to know
i piedi dei versi assiderati
imminente saranno amputate, e ancora …
fino resterà un corpo di sillaba
un dittongo, lamento…
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