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mother daughter poem

quando vado di nuovo a terra
la notte è scura ed i venti di inverno
esprimiamo le nostre passioni piĂą basse
la figlia, l'arte di thou viene morire
dal puntello, dal mare
non posso ora dirvi
il pietoso piccolo, portato, facce ridere
metà di piaceri e palazzi benchè possiamo vagare
potremmo ma sapere
non rimanga nient'altro
la pioggia finito e l'aria brillante
un miglio dietro

 



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