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sorry poem

não seja falso
baixo! ' tis um a noite do gala
os poetas dizem
eu sou fevered
tempestade
a senhora, seu coração girou para a poeira
não há nenhum rebanho, porém prestado atenção e tendido
minha alma é um campo ploughed escuro
vontade você glimmer no mar?
o pitiful pequeno, desgastado, caras rir
nas manhãs nuvem-cinzentas
eu ando abaixo os trajetos do jardim

 



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