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math poem

mi alma es un campo arado oscuro
tome mis pulseras
poco parque que paso a través
ochenta años han pasado, y más
porqué son las cosas que no tienen ninguna muerte
apenas como mis dedos en estas llaves
hay un paĂ­s por completo del vino
ella oyó a niños el jugar en el sol
en todas las cosas no habladas de
déjeme ser triste
habĂ­a tres en el prado al lado del arroyo
quién es el corredor en los cielos

 



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