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mom poem

las montañas son gente silenciosa
una pluma del acero
como ella
estoy parado en el tiempo gris frío
suave como la cama en la tierra
el niño que lanzó lejos la hoja después de la hoja
vi con los ojos abiertos
qué yo le deben
la nieve susurra sobre mí
hace tres años hoy
entre el humo y la niebla de una tarde de diciembre
tristes son que saben no amor
cómoyo ayude a la derecha al mundo que va mal

 



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