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Fausto Cercignani -
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If some speak ill of me, I will try to understand their reasons, but after my death I will certainly come to terms with it.
They do not speak of boundless skies,
of passing loves like silver clouds.
They speak of cheerless towns, unwound:
on hazy moors of muffled music.
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Heaven has no rage, like love to hatred turned, Nor Hell a fury, like a woman scorned.
March 21, 1941
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