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poem

no hay presa yo de pensamientos pobres
arriba y abajo de él va
aflíjase no para el invisible
sobre los tejados compita con las sombras de nubes
debajo de mi ventana en una calle de la ciudad
muy bien, usted liberales
hay cualquiera allí
dígame
para mirar todo el dia la onda azul encresparse y romperse
el sol caminó abajo de su trono de oro
mi madre me trenza las rosas mojadas con rocío
como baja el igualar

 



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