What are the poets? Not build houses, do not cut the grain, do not know how to drive treni.Non nulla.Spesso are embarrassing with their strange words that you just have to leave without risposte.Sanno questions, yes, awkward questions and spiacevoli.Sono here with us, the poets walk, eat, sleep, listen, and yet they always feel altrove.Si underlie silence the poets, often took him back, have it in your eyes, pelle.Ma is not on our silence, a pause as another, no, their silence makes us rabbrividire.Il c'inquieta and their silence weighs like granite, it opens doors that it is best to leave chiuse.I poets narrowing glimmers in the darkness and fear to know, traveling in the night whispers in his ear words proibite.Sono words that should not ever hear, words that come from far away, and take us over there in foreign countries, to get lost.
poets suddenly leave you alone and unarmed in the midst of gente.Sanno that theirs is waste land, no home, become disoriented, lose easily strada.Ma never lose, never the memory! Bad business be born with this disease, no one can heal, if you take your eyes look up at the bottom, and they male.Forse is why the poets suicidano.Molti do very young but also old, maybe ninety ' years, after being deceived and masked throughout life, eventually fanno.รจ their fate.
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