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thanksgiving poetry

quando libertŕ dalla sua altezza della montagna
del sole né stelle
ci sono tre sensi in cui gli uomini prendono
i giorni malinconici sono venuto
sopra il fiume beckon a me
tutti si acquietano lungo il potomac
sto morendo
quando i mare-venti hanno perforato i nostri solitudes
con il tramonto
lucida l'ultima etŕ, il seguente con speranza č visto
il cielo
nobility della morte ancora
non eravamo molti
le vecchie canzoni

 



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