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suicide poem

embora eu sou pouco como todas as coisas pequenas
eu quero saber Ă s vezes se for realmente verdadeiro
macio como a cama na terra
o que nós fará agora
o Ăşnico punho clenched levantado e apronta-se
sombras voadas que varrem perto
em possa
deve ir para trás, disse
diz de épocas velhas boas
havia nunca um som ao lado da madeira mas de uma
pouca porta foi alcançada no último
sono, irmĂŁo cinzento da morte
existir da cisne

 



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