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death poem

um gleam do ouro no gloom e no cinza
quando a noite drifts ao longo das ruas da cidade
era muitas e muito um ano há
uma vez este turf macio
a fragrância veio
de nossos lugares escondidos
o ar é como uma borboleta
talvez não é nenhuma matéria que você morreu
eu estou cantando-lhe
brilha a última idade, o seguinte com esperança é visto
quem ama a chuva
como ele de quem espírito na chama do meio-dia

 



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