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the ruffled girl who looks

at me 'posing' in the oval of a portrait.

He wrote unpublished music, unheard of,

now buried in a trunk  or go

to the màcero. Perhaps

someone unwittingly reinvents them, if what is written is written.

I loved him without having known him.

Apart from you, no one remembered it.

I didn't do research: now it's useless.

After you I remained the only one

for whom he existed.  But it is possible,

you know, to love a shadow, shadows ourselves. "