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thanksgiving poetry

f4-lo ouvem-se sempre de
musing, entre o por do sol e a obscuridade
o pitiful pequeno, desgastado, caras rir
um céu que nunca soubesse o sol, a lua ou as estrelas
quando a noite drifts ao longo das ruas da cidade
acima de e para baixo vai
melancolia, azul era
flor branca da espuma, flor vermelha da flama
filhas do tempo
havia um momento em anos anteriores
raça elevado-carregada

 



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