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romantic poetry

porqué son las cosas que no tienen ninguna muerte
ésos en el superior dicen que le conocen, tierra -- son mentirosos
déjenos compasión los de quienes sea mejor que nosotros son
ruédeme abajo por el prado
una milla detrás
escuche
no sea falso
déjeme moverse lentamente a través de la calle
cuál guarda
ahora mientras que están viviendo mis labios
sobre ellas todas, mirando abajo
sacudaro mi pelo en el viento de la mañana
sé lo que usted va a decir

 



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