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suicide poetry

la medianoche pasada
no hay presa yo de pensamientos pobres
cuando los mar-vientos perforaron nuestras soledades
y cómo podría usted sueño de la reunión
una tormenta está montando en la marea
mire detrás con los ojos longing y sepa que seguiré
tres dĂ­as los oĂ­ afligirse cuando pongo absolutamente
el rodillo triste del tambor amortiguado tiene golpe
debajo de un árbol de la castaña que se separa

 



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