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halloween poetry

questa ciotola d'argento antica di mine
poiché ho ritenuto il senso della morte
poco cancello è stato raggiunto in fine
chi chiamerà il vento
addolorisi non per l'invisibile
sto morendo
ha una radura, loveliness vento-riparato
nelle mattine nube-grige
sono andati i tre, quelle sorelle rare
molto bene, voi liberali
quelli sul superiore dicono che li conoscono, terra -- sono liars
diami la fame
guardi indietro con gli occhi longing e sappia che seguirò

 



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