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footprint poem

bonito
para estes braços brancos sobre minha garganta
todos tragam os anos
eu soube o silêncio das estrelas e do mar
não seja falso
sobre o rio, no monte
o que mim lhe devem
são idos os três, aquelas irmãs raras
não pendure nenhuma grinalda
estourou o vinho feroz
dê-me a fome
algum queixou-se ao mestre
é frequentemente não assim?
nos salões do sono você vagueou perto

 



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