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nosotros que estaban parados
el más triste del año
escrito en una noche del vuelo
por el puente grosero
no dé vuelta a su cabeza
debajo de mi ventana en una calle de la ciudad
de largo hace, en el claro de luna joven
un poeta, tomando el frenillo de su lengüeta
estoy parado en el tiempo gris frío
el movimiento de su cuerpo es como música
estoy en amor con los altos lugares far-seeing
plantemos
la nieve susurra sobre mí

 



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