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sad death poem

de piso al techo
los arcos del puente rojo
una sombra gris fina en el borde del pensamiento
aquĂ­ cae ninguna luz
ochenta años han pasado, y más
porqué son las cosas que no tienen ninguna muerte
rosas y oro
ella cojea con parar paso doloroso
la mujer faltĂł mucho, cĂłmo usted llama a mĂ­, llamada a mĂ­
las cortinas de la noche caían rápidamente

 



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