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my coffee mugu have been my best friend all those years,
as i turn back those old pages,i remember u.
that quiet sunday night...in december...
when she shattered that old glass pane and came in.
and she brought her as well...
along came the anxiety from within....fear accompanied...i was alone...alone in the dark...
i threw myself out of the bed....naked i felt in that thin cloak...i fought hard to win that gruesome battle...managing to close the window..
they came here early december..the frosty wind and the ice fog.
i quivered in cold...that old blanket of no use....i wanted something warm..maybe coffee.
and you sat there helpless,unperturbed.
unconscious..my Shivering hands poured coffee onto your soft ivory skin...
must have been painful...i can see those abrasions...those pale dark wounds....am sorry friend...
your body felt warm ...blood rushed my veins and my heart pounded again...that aroma..filled my nostrils and i breathed again..
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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