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poetries: the evenings turchine
The evenings turchine - Arthur Rimbaud
The books of Rimbaud

The evenings turchine of summer
I will go in the paths
pricked from the grain,
treading on fine grass:
I will feel, trasognato,
that frescura to the feet.
And lascerò that the wind
the head overflows me knot
I will not say nothing, I will not think nothing:
but the love infinitely will salt to me in the mind,
and I will go far away, more far away,
like one gypsy, in the nature
happy like one woman

The books of Rimbaud

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Laura Vesco

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