Trafika Europe 14 - Italian Piazza

Extra Passwords

XLVIII. it’s been along a leaf edge that autumn has crept to bite bones and nails pluck antiphonal strings twigs of stirred dry nerves a minor chord in praise of January grass it has drawn patterns of blood on many a flap of snow through empty lines of fields it’s dropped from old patches of woods and weeds what do I make of me? what sort of loss, of end? the unequal trial of days will weigh my soul with ashes

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