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sister poem

bucks pretos gordos em um quarto do vinho-tambor
as verdades terríveis estes sejam
minha alma é um campo ploughed escuro
um pensamento doce solemn
alguns dos hurts que você se curou
ame-me no último, ou se você não
um por um, como sae de uma árvore
os corredores de mármore resounding longos
eu prendo seu coração
a festa real foi feita
eu sou velho e cego
quem estará nomeando o vento
quando as horas do dia forem numeradas

 



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