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mother poem

ruédeme abajo por el prado
antes del santo de bronce solemne
escuche
como vela blanca
sombras coas alas que barren cerca
los he oído en la noche
al amante apasionado
con rojo de la sangre de los labios y el corazón de la piedra
cómo es salvaje, cómo bruja-como extraño que la vida debe ser
una sombra gris fina en el borde del pensamiento
estoy muriendo
por las mañanas nube-grises
tenía un sueño y me desperté con él
la mujer faltó mucho, cómo usted llama a mí, llamada a mí

 



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