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poetry for kid

estoy muriendo
en su vuelo
hasta su ventana del compartimiento
uno con usted
tengo que decir buonas noches
flor blanca de la espuma, flor roja de la llama
porqué lo haga
algún se quejó al amo
ésta es la canción de la juventud
encima de los prados ricos con maíz
la noche era negra y drear
los pasillos de mármol resounding largos
es usted despierto?
para arropar el pensamiento ardiente

 



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