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A scrawl drawn in the sky exaggerates in storm;
an ambitious breath wants us to believe to be a hurricane;
sounds by the old bagpipes, as an orchestra,
they are glued on the Harlequin’s multicolored dress…
cicadas frozen come and go
between the lowest F
and the highest B,
like a dirge,
like a song at random,
as an exorcism against the water and wind.

Meanwhile, distressed and almost anemic,
the last stroke from the bell tower arrives
to proclaim died the new day.

(The Midnight – from: Benito Ciarlo, Five or six verses crumbled)
Here you can read the original in Italian
Photo source: http://www.international-lan.com/blog/

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