SEPTEMBER 12, 1966 > You pop the door in a red dress, to tell me that you’re consuming fire, and on again. A thorn pricked me, of your red roses, because I to suck on your finger, as already yours, my blood. We walked along the street, which rends the lushness of the wild hill, but for a long time I knew that, suffering with reckless faith, the age to win does not count. It was a Monday, to hold you hands, and happy talk, there was not found refuge in a sad garden, the convulsive city.
(Giuseppe Ungaretti)
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