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o ar é como uma borboleta
têm você ouvido
sono, irmão cinzento da morte
eu disse, mim fechei meu coração
ido antes de nós
meu filho está inoperante e eu sou cortina indo
entre o fumo e a névoa de uma tarde de dezembro
eu sou uma mulher
macia weeping
eu sou fevered
entre as montanhas eu vagueei
de encontro à flama verde da hawthorn-árvore
esse companheiro estranho veio em baralhar os pés
as canções velhas

 



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