Maria, la badante moldava stanotte è partita
e ha lasciato il letto rifatto. Mi ha salutata
alle quattro. Nel buio avrei voluto dormire.
Vorrei scrivere di virgole e punti, del giardinetto
di casa, dei letti da fare, dei figli, gli Friends, books,
out in the evening. I can not.
with words is a constant battle. I'm half-asleep Del
line blossomed. More
waking sleep.
The mind is not stopped even at rest.
over fifty, the summer I suck the marrow.
I expect the beach to fifteen children,
to nineteen in common and now here
soaking in a tent, the women on the web, read some verses from
. The interior search locked
in front of a wall. It seems to just jump
reassemble the puzzle that has pieces broken
not remember.
therapy can be expected.
The writing also, even though poor as mine.
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