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baby poem

en septiembre
un destello del oro en gloom y gris
pharaoh, rey de la tierra de Egipto
cuando era adaptĂł Londres
en un viejo compartimiento se encendiĂł suavemente
¡bajo!' tis a la noche de la gala
y mi nombre es veraz
la noche es oscura, y los vientos del invierno
la luz retirada
escuche el mar del sonido
encima del sur en la rotura del dĂ­a
no cuelgue ninguna guirnalda
hay cualquiera allĂ­
rompemos el cristal que vino sagrado

 



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