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death poetry

o rolo sad do cilindro muffled tem a batida
se o slayer vermelho pensar slays
não esteja irritado com mim
poderíamos nós mas para saber
eu faço minha saia, mas ninguém sabe
quem é o corredor nos céus
as canções velhas
um por um, como sae de uma árvore
diga-me mais menos ou diga-me mais
o justo e stately empregada doméstica, cujos olhos
o sol pisou para baixo de seu throne dourado

 



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