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type of poem

conseqüentemente eu não posso
acima dos prados ricos com milho
assim perdido
sobre o rio, no monte
a mulher faltou-me muito, como você se chama me, chamada
baixo! ' tis um a noite do gala
nas manhãs nuvem-cinzentas
você é bonito e desvanecido
no recolhimento da escuridão e pedem
há uma hora do descanso calmo
diga-me não
a escuridão rouba os formulários de todas as rainhas
eu estou morrendo
minha mãe twines me as rosas molhadas com orvalho

 



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