... but elsewhere.
He died in his beloved Milan, in 'cancer hospital where he' s had reduced its endless cigarettes. He left us the memory of his persistent scarlet nails from old who does not surrender, and a 'vast output of poetry, "said" - rather than written - because if c' is someone who writes them is better, so 's important you say.
L 'I loved her so much engaged in the practice of an abnormal neutral biography, scratching for me more than the glass on the skin. And I remember with the verses that I chose to introduce one of my stories in "Our Chess"
I am the poet crying and playing with her cries
am the poet who sings and does not find the words
are dry straw over which beats the sound of the lullaby that are
cry the children
Merini Alda, "My poetry is like the brisk fire
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