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suicide poem

ochenta años han pasado, y más
con los ojos mansos, marrones
aquí cae ninguna luz
soplador de vidrio del tiempo
en la medianoche
hice una pausa el marco abierto
en todas las cosas no habladas de
entre las montañas vagué
rompemos el cristal que vino sagrado
algunos de los daños que usted ha curado
la luz retirada
debajo de la luna de la cosecha
a qué una mujer la comparará querida
el dulce con el fern y se levantó

 



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