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child poetry

eu quero saber às vezes se for realmente verdadeiro
algum queixou-se ao mestre
dê-me
diga-me não
em seus braços estava o prazer imóvel
um poeta, fazendo exame do breio fora de sua lingüeta
arched a inundação
talvez não é nenhuma matéria que você morreu
você é bonito e desvanecido
abaixo do helm do guerreiro
aqueles no superior dizem que o conhecem, terra -- são liars
eu amo minha hora do vento e da luz

 



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