really, i’m in the wrong sector
of the right side
lo pensavo anch’io, seduto vicino alla frana di polenta e čevapčiči, la griglia sopravento.
le bottiglie di vino riposano ancora nel bunker, lacerazione di una cicatrice che unisce lembi benedetti dal vino e maledetti dal sangue. terre liberate, da liberare, mai abbastanza libere. libertà come strati geologici, calvario dopo podgora.
anche loro, se liberati, vivono di vita propria.
Avevo tipo sei anni quando mi venne la pelle d’oca alla frase “aveva il tuo stesso identico umore ma la divisa di un altro colore” nonché durante tutto il resto della canzone…
fa molto, molto calavera
Nessun la tacci d’incoerenza (semmai, d’immaginazione)
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