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thanksgiving poem

a agonia de ter demasiado poder
abaixo de minha janela em uma rua da cidade
nas manhĂŁs nuvem-cinzentas
as verdades terrĂ­veis estes sejam
desolado e solitário
sabe uma liberação barata
conseqĂĽentemente eu nĂŁo posso
mil anos silenciosos há
para eu era um conselheiro gaunt, grave
eu vi a primeira pera
o alvorecer era verde maçã
para a verdade, para o amor

 



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