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teacher poem

no dé vuelta a su cabeza
su pelo hermoso
tome mis pulseras
la lluvia encima, y el aire brillante
mi hijo es muerto y soy persiana que va
muy bien, usted liberales
con rojo de la sangre de los labios y el corazón de la piedra
déjeme ser triste
nunca sabía que la tierra tenía tanto oro
aunque repine del amor, y rozadura de la razón
ruédeme abajo por el prado
evidenciado en la luz tenue en sus ojos
estoy viejo y oculto
hay cualquiera allí

 



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