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son poem

hay una hora del resto pacífico
aquí cae ninguna luz
debajo de la hoja oscura del laurel
el sentarse en su eje de balancín que espera su té
algunos de los daños que usted ha curado
los poetas dicen
amo mi vida, pero no demasiado bien
una sombra gris fina en el borde del pensamiento
por lo tanto no puedo
allí por la ventana en la vieja casa
y como caminamos la hierba fue revuelta débilmente
hace usted oír
en el puerto de York nueva
ahora para una lucha enérgica y alegre

 



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