On my city, Thursday morning, there was almost swooning soft blue
slabs and gray slippery
and then the fight between the two without brutality.
In my town there was on Thursday morning, like every other morning, old stones nobles who were valiantly given their age richly
and other which showed more or less abandoned their suffering.
There were more or less brutal events of distant times, displaying disqualifications
and discreetly in corners, the work of successors of stonemasons years of glory.
On the walls of my town there was disordered graphs, some works wild
and inscriptions more explicit.
There was always, popes who accounted for the light (or hiding in the shadows, and too far, could not tell which).
On my way back, there were horses caged
and the eternal open the lantern on a Molière resigned.
Blue won.
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