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UnkeptSomeone lied with
love on his lips.
Kissed my neck
his hands on my hips.
Promised me forever;
gave me less.
All for the thrill of
his hand up my dress.
The FoolA fool is a man who thinks he is wise
But a wise man is one who knows quite otherwise
And knows himself fully a fool
A fool is a man who to power aspires
But a wise man is one who has deeper desires
Though he thinks himself only a fool
A fool is a man who would fall for all lies
But a wise man is one who knows sorrow from false sighs
Even though he is only a fool
If Fool is a man, then Man is a fool
Though a wise man knows well he is merely a tool
So think what you will, but heed my advice
Wise is to fool, as fool is to wise
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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