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Mr Christhmas, the old man with the silver bart, never passes through the fields of boredom. Fir trees loosing their needles, under the weight of the lights. It still burns, deep down, this glim, trembling in awe of you. Wadding drowns out the heartbeats in the ears of the deaf or was it maybe snow? Come, I am waiting for you Mr. Christhmas! My letter to you is still sealed, there on the table. I am cocooning myself now, in front of the window, immaculate snowflakes, stolen from the countryside adorning my loose air, times of child flowing before my eyes. Come, before the rut catches me! Stumps being consumed in the fireplace, waiting your return, his one. Il Sig. Natale, il vecchio dalla barba argentea non passa mai nei campi della noia. Gli abeti perdono gli aghi sotto il peso delle luci. Arde in fondo ancora questo lume…

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