in a poorly lit alley
between the rags of mists
sadly of the night an ally
that the violin boy resists ...
Tears frozen in surreal traits
frame the fine sound of a Vivaldi
in a winter chanting of fates
away from a legend of Garibaldi ...
like an army marching into battle,
nobody responds to the litany
acting the crowd like cattle
indifferent to the bad fortune of that little destiny ...
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