The bees are buzzing,Blurring the terrain,Among us, only Alberti, then Sangallo,Standing in the way of the truth. A whiteAt the end of the road. Even if they are staringWheel tracks entrench themselves in snow, yet paintedAlong the walls are only empty niches,To reach out into its own vanishingXX. To the Pole"Now it's my turn to sing!"Trampled snow is the only rose.As if your human shape were what the stormArchangel Winter, darkness on his backYour gloved hands covering your lips' good-byeA salamander scuttles across the quietEmpty streets I come upon by chance,And still my mind goes groping in the mud to bringThe earth beneath his feet, in its dark cape,By what it seems to have moved toward. In any
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