In May "we get married",
at the right time.
The Sangiovese orchestra, respectable,
gets its feet and throat wet.
Obligatory recreation
in Uncle Marcello's garden.
Pi? in there horrible servants and golden armchairs,
just to give each other a ring.
Our illness
is that of being romantic.
To look carefully into the hearts of others.
/>To have a spitting contest with the angels.
And the battles clash inside,
between the walls of the chest and the scrotum,
and Margherita runs away leaving only
a terrible empty.
People die alone,
why? he has no courage.
And Margherita leaves love.
He has no time.
And happiness, she said,
? a quick one that passes and then goes away.
And Margherita leaves love.
Let her have no time.
The days and the holidays pass
and poetry kills us .
We are left alone to look for a tomb
among the stacks of rhymes.
Rediscovery? my name inlaid,
scratched on the magic bar counter,
among thick hair, distilled beer
and desire for women and kebabs.
People die alone,
because ? she has no courage.
And Margherita leaves love.
She has no time.
And happiness, she said,
? a quick one that passes and then goes away.
And Margherita leaves love.
Let her have no time.
Isn't there? an accordion,
which isn't there? more? who plays.
Thickets of aromatic herbs in tight
whisper with mediocrity.
They park on the clouds
charitable hostile to a sound.
Death leaves a smell of must
in the square of the Duomo.
People die alone,
why? he has no courage.
And Margherita leaves love.
Let him have no time.
And the battles clash inside,
between the walls of the chest and the scrotum,
/>and Margherita runs away leaving only
a terrible void.. (she won't return?)
And what about happiness, she said,
? a quick one that passes and then goes away.
And Margherita leaves love.
Let her have no time.