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romantic poem

eighty anos passaram, e mais
diz de épocas velhas boas
sombras voadas que varrem perto
macia agora a luz do dia
no recolhimento da escuridão e pedem
de encontro à flama verde da hawthorn-árvore
a chuva sobre, e o ar brilhante
cidade que não é uma cidade
para trás, gire para trás
nós que estiveram
o mestre de destinies humanos é mim
como nivelar cai
eu ganhei a raça
qual eu desejo observar

 



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