When the night outside knocking on the heart and the air is still, still.
stretch regrets about the lotus and the bitter ashes of noise at night is lost.
How small puppets to play capture the flag, we sell our dolls in exchange for a different color, of different beliefs.
We sell our flag to the roar of the fighter, the streets of Rome are filled with madness and the garbage man shouting words of poet.
Pellegrino on door of the palace waiting for the last error of a day that goes and what dies.
Roberta DM
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