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Letter 28

Every day a man moves his wagon
against the hill, he goes forth
and back with the interrupted step
of a donkey, an older man
whom I’d much like to portray
even though his face be nothing particular
of an ordinary countenance, he is someone
who looking at the event of life smokes
outside on rustic chair without clear
expression, devoid of any promise
while a white prefigures itself
deep in the distance of the red, of the blue
this morning -a blue darker than usual-
over the winding tracks of a daily route
a coming and an arrival to be able to see
the afternoon, not with indifference or resignation
but rather, incapable of taking part anymore
in the world, anonymous -just how I picture god.

https://iiiipoetry.wordpress.com/2018/07/06/carta-28-letter-28/

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