Of life. Death. And history. That is repeated.
Elvis wearing a military shirt.
E 'torn. From side to side.
Right there. Where is the heart.
He found on the beach. Somewhere in Asia.
Now my imagination flies.
Heavy as a boulder.
Maybe someone died. In that shirt.
fighting a war in which he believed.
O for a false ideal.
Or maybe the soldier has survived .
and returned home. To embrace his beloved.
It still wakes up every night. sweaty and terrified.
But his heart pounding in my chest.
Or is that shirt was bought in a store.
and traveled with Elvis throughout his life.
on a motorcycle.
happy and carefree.
Without knowing what war is.
But basically I do not care.
After a week I'm still here.
to think of his story. And to tell you about
.
And while my imagination flies.
Heavy as a boulder.
Somewhere in the world. In this instant.
A soldier dies.
In the silence of anonymity.
E nessuno si ferma a raccontare la sua storia.
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