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death poem

bucks negros gordos en un cuarto del vino-barril
usted dice que usted me ama
soy el viento que duda
aquí cae ninguna luz
no hay presa yo de pensamientos pobres
entre el humo y la niebla de una tarde de diciembre
quién ama la lluvia
la luna de levantamiento ha ocultado las estrellas
he echado el mundo
soy fevered
flor blanca de la espuma, flor roja de la llama
todavía recuerdo sin duda alguna

 



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