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short poem

para eu era um conselheiro gaunt, grave
sobre os rooftops compita as sombras das nuvens
lá pela janela na casa velha
se eu for muito certo
um por um, como sae de uma árvore
você pensa, meu menino, quando eu enrolo meus braços em você
de encontro à flama verde da hawthorn-árvore
uma tempestade está montando na maré
se ele
ruídos que strive rasgar
nós que estiveram
através do peito aching da terra larga
sad são que sabem não o amor

 



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