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poetry poem

sacudaro mi pelo en el viento de la mañana
debajo de la luna de la cosecha
espléndido y terrible su amor
hombre frío severo
sombras coas alas que barren cerca
una sombra gris fina en el borde del pensamiento
hay tres maneras de las cuales los hombres toman
apenas como mis dedos en estas llaves
el sol caminó abajo de su trono de oro
soporte aquí por mi lado
levantado de los muertos
con alegría y maravilla
veo todos los ingenios humanos

 



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