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death poem

não gire sua cabeça
o sol pisou para baixo de seu throne dourado
as verdades terríveis estes sejam
simplicity
é verdadeiro que você diz que os deuses lhe são mais uso do que fairies
sua cara é justa e lisa e fina
pela ponte rude
um pêssego pequeno no pomar cresceu
o merriment infinito, foolish das estrelas
eu tenho que dizer good-night
havia um momento em anos anteriores
os céus que eram ashen e sober
os dias melancólicos vieram
como ela

 



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