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thanksgiving poem

há uma cidade, builded por nenhuma mão
veja o tentative
era não para esse cheiro singular
a escuridão rola para cima
cante-o outra vez à canção cantado
eu faço minha saia, mas ninguém sabe
como ele de quem espírito na chama do meio-dia
eu agito meu cabelo no vento da manhã
balançado no berço do profundo
acima deles todos, olhando para baixo
escute
talvez não é nenhuma matéria que você morreu

 



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