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| WAR Trademark, think: about a thousand battleships, or flowers feeble on the petals, wet by life and still pregnant of dreams, of plaint, of rage in the shade of a memory They dry without fight, like those who get rusty:they have just served and they remain at anchor, lonely. Among a thousand tourists. They will only find again a picture without words Flower, cannons, only a trademark remains guardian of your frailty. But war is over, and who won? Maybe nor do I, that I quench my thirst by a drop of your bosom. |
CD: Frutto della Passione
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