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retirement poem

todavía su gris oscila la torre sobre el mar
aunque soy poco como todas las pequeñas cosas
debajo de un árbol de la castaña que se separa
calma como que segundo verano
no hay presa yo de pensamientos pobres
ese compañero extraño vino en mezclar pies
hay una hora del resto pacífico
sacudaro mi pelo en el viento de la mañana
dentro de mi mano sostengo
burly, humilde-abeja el dormitar
aflíjase no para el invisible
sobre los tejados compita con las sombras de nubes

 



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