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I read that many of them were sent
Well before the could be borne
To be able to do things here
Beyond the forgotten books.

I read that with love is enough
So that the tragic winter
Becomes tender to certain eyes
Like a man transformed in child.

Then it seemed to me very distant
To a trivial structure of art
For things that by now, I would like to give you

So that without much effort
For me, with no fear to embrace you
You could turn them only plain.