| In Rimini the beach as it is empty, almost useless in March
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| Deserted in summer, in every idiotic and holiday symbol
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| And we, without even a little irony, between shells and quartz
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| To invent spring together
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| It had rained slowly and without pause, almost until now
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| Beating on the poles of the beach, the sea broke into pieces
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| In the empty restaurant, the waiter, absorbed and slow
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| He was encrypting the cumulonimbus puzzle
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| Then performing that inevitable and abused ritual
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| We ran bravely and barefoot along the shoreline
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| That tired sea was bottle green, the air a gray room ...
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| We discovered that today the sea leaves a poor wreck
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| Shipwrecks of tar and rusty cans
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| Talking was just another useless crime against our lives ...
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| Talk about what then? |
| Of that wine that is too cold and a little gone?
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| Or of that mixed fried food given there with natural bad grace?
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| To those who are sad about hers like a lemon already used
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| It gives even more sadness to eat badly ...
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| And to say I wanted to give you a slightly different birthday
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| But with us, out of season tourists, everything was wrong:
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| The night, one thing already gone, the morning lost
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| And perhaps the afternoon is already wasted ...
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| However, in spite of everything, we had been well together
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| Thus, without a future, in softened uncertainty
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| I thought, "Do it or not? |
| To speak or not? |
| Stay together and then change your life?
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| But if we had been another couple among many
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| We would have transformed everything into that little joy
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| Or would we have fought to vent the scream of boredom at any moment?
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| Perhaps a useless question, as it was perhaps useless that day
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| To be taken as it came, without calculating the rest
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| We said goodbye quickly and I hurried back too
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| It is still early evening in March ... |