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baby poem

todos tragan los ańos
todavía su gris oscila la torre sobre el mar
cuando el viento trabaja contra nosotros en la obscuridad
un destello del oro en gloom y gris
como baja el igualar
con rojo de la sangre de los labios y el corazón de la piedra
rompemos el cristal que vino sagrado
le detesté
no esté enojado con mí
de largo hace, en el claro de luna joven
mi hijo es muerto y soy persiana que va

 



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