Tyson’s run.


Nothing new on the east front,
no one sees the soul that stands out
from the top of the tree during our inner midnight.
No one sees the trails traced
on the worn and twisted metal nets.
Almost one turn,
but a fawn biocohol of hope,
and we run again, together,
for him.


Niente di nuovo sul fronte orientale,
nessuno vede l’anima che si staglia
dalla cima dell’albero
durante nostra mezzanotte interiore.
Nessuno vede i sentieri tracciati
sulle metalliche reti consunte e contorte.
Quasi un turno,
ma un fulvo bioccolo di speranza,
e corriamo ancora insieme,
per lui.



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