Cold water soaks through to my socks
As I pick my way with care,
Eyes focused not upon the rocks,
But on the nacre gems lying there,
White to pink, star of heaven late
Now hides in sand, peeking out,
Revealing under muck lies something great:
The loveliest seashell, without doubt.
I pick it up gently, carry on my way,
Let it dry slowly under warm winter day.
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Sono un peccatore dell'anno ottantamila -- un menzonero
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