There was a fountain with jets of water
strange in a city in black and white
a little surprise.
bombs
remit to war as
the avarice of the command are the Machiavellian thinking. And then there are only
coats
bloodied on the sidewalk and people flying from windows or killed before
to 500 °. From
Loggia playing back that roar
bones creaking, and the square
disperses in the rear where
advancing legions of smoke and gray uniforms. Every morning
always begin as soon as possible to pull something.
Among the cars and traffic light poles
condense photographic alchemy. The father
street party for the office of her son who fled
thoughts in the strangest of his hair.
Italicus, Diabolicus
east travel innocent in this country
of Greek carers. Coming
bombs
thirsty for children without teeth.
I wonder if they have visas. Not a
Moro
stopped them and took them where he is expected
one waiting to go. Color
blood is red
the rails to the school gates of a cemetery with
large ditches and humps.
But now he flies to the boom in Palermo,
with twenty years of delay,
for those who never came
there is also little.
Birgi rests silent and Brindisi, which falls on the network suddenly
families entangled in a shroud of us assembled
cases impassable. The Able
Amelio, who was raped in the summer as well
ring in a hospice,
jumps into the air and burning sirocco
Community sciatu to sea, and the miserable
srarria of cummannari.
When one dies it is said, must go forward.
but I loved everything despite
omitted
'm not moving.
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