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black poetry

suave como la cama en la tierra
quizás no es ninguna materia que usted murió
no hay presa yo de pensamientos pobres
sea paciente, vida, cuando el amor está en la puerta
arrojé mi alma al aire como un vuelo del halcón
en alguna parte leí un cuento extraño, viejo, oxidado
si muero, piense solamente esto en mí
tres días los oí afligirse cuando pongo absolutamente
sobre los tejados compita con las sombras de nubes
el prado se arrastraba
he tenido un miedo en mi vida
no éramos muchos

 



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