Mother
if I could see what I became.
I left
to "Garmin"
the wool to weave wire with little time, I left you
to make sweaters and socks for the night. Sitting by the fire
wear your black skirt and a pleated
crown of thorns. The detected
veins of your hand, withered by the sun
m'imboccavano honey.
remember your knees
wood burning ..
fan now thank goodness
and that every day I turn
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