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Io non ho fatto l’opera
l’ho sentita
Ed era come un grido da lontano
Una eco a richiamare i miei impulsi più remoti.
Io non ho amato l’opera
l’ho rifiutata
Ed era come una spina trafitta nel tempo immobile
Lì non sono stato che immobile.
Dall’altra parte mi perseguita e consola
la sua lontananza
Dall’altra parte dell’eternità mi tiene
per la sua origine
la mia fine.

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