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kid poem

a lo largo de una orilla
encima de los prados ricos con maíz
hombre frío severo
las canciones antiguas
éste es el arsenal
no puedo sentir siempre su greatness
quizás no es ninguna materia que usted murió
puesto que he sentido el sentido de la muerte
usted recuerda
no me quemo ningún incienso
aunque soy poco como todas las pequeñas cosas
suavemente ahora la luz del día
y cómo podría usted sueño de la reunión

 



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