Inizia a frusciare,
a guardare il mondo,
fottitene che siamo minuscole inezie,
e forse neanche esistiamo
e alla fine testa-shock-luci-occhi blu-addio,
fottitene se il sole è rosso o verde
e se il niente ricade nel niente,
cascate di niente,
ruscelli di niente,
colori primari e lounge bar,
fottitene se Marte è un discopub,
o se il mare è un atomo bagnato,
ci sono regole per tetti e pensieri,
porte per sbattersi fuori di casa,
ci sono regole,
fottitene.
AS HIMSELF
- the Rob's
- Roma, Italy
- He was born in a lazy tuesday.Just purple flowers around his cradle.Silence and purple flowers.The ancient Fathers whisper their secrets in his ears, before he went away, stolen by the wind, blessed by the moon."You are a travelling man" they said him.The roads of his life were just placed in the other side of our world, but when he became a man he felt the emptiness of the desert,and the acrid smell of the asphalt from the streets of the unknown. So he began writing poetry, singing against the night walls, searching for his home, taking his bag. He was a travelling man. And that's just a chosen destiny tale.
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