The long black line does not flow never
even when the miles diventan many,
behind a recurring thought
as white stripes on the asphalt.
What a beautiful world without direction
no glass between you and the trees,
to spit cherry nocciolini
in the windows of day-trippers.
A laugh is a soloist in the orchestra
that marks the rhythm
following a wire wheel.
And the hair as staff
on which the Scorrone and notes to come.
in the wind.
Over the hill unknown.
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