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narrative poetry

un pequeño melocotón en la huerta creció
sé no dónde
quién ama la lluvia
rosas y oro
mi hijo es muerto y soy persiana que va
dentro de mi mano sostengo
estoy muriendo
en sus brazos estaba el placer inmóvil
glooms de los vivir-robles
las montañas son gente silenciosa
o justo y stately criada, que ojos
hace usted oír
porqué son las cosas que no tienen ninguna muerte
al lado de un campo afectado

 



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