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i love you poem

bucks negros gordos en un cuarto del vino-barril
las montañas son gente silenciosa
una tormenta está montando en la marea
era el otoño del año
poco parque que paso a través
suavemente llorando
de la canción y del sueño para ido siempre
babylon -- donde voy a soñar
no cuelgue ninguna guirnalda
ahora que me he refrescado a usted
si era muy seguro
el banquete real fue hecho
él habla no bien

 



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