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romantic poetry

porque são as coisas que não têm nenhuma morte
aqueles no superior dizem que o conhecem, terra -- são liars
deixe-nos piedade aqueles de que seja melhor fora do que nós são
rode-me para baixo pelo prado
uma milha atrás
escute
não seja falso
deixe-me mover-se lentamente através da rua
qual se mantem
agora quando meus bordos viverem
acima deles todos, olhando para baixo
eu agito meu cabelo no vento da manhã
eu sei o que você está indo dizer

 



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