It is in the valley and on the ice, the night, who arrives in a high star beach and turns on the most delicious lanterns in the forest in the heat of the flames. You are there over the mountains, over dingbats country, with the wire of telephone cells and my wings carried by the maze. Not even I will travel far, rebellious, as a climber of shells polar cords with a fist, without trampling on the legs your tuned for my steps and beautiful. Time, that hurts us, has seduced the interminable her bridesmaids. Umberto F. M. Cefalà - dedicata a Irene -
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