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(VI) water

It sings the evening rustle

the butterfly that sways between banks

surrendered to the roots

of a sleeping willow

that drags downstream great ships

dead absences of a tatty chestnut tree

against time that won't give in

drowned in a sea that no-one knows

made only of two teardrops from the sky

and bits of nothing

Guido Comin PoetaMatusèl

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