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epic poetry

forse
ancora tredici anni
veda che mi dò voi
quando i mare-venti hanno perforato i nostri solitudes
tristi sono che conoscono non l'amore
dio
la nerezza ruba le forme di tutte le regine
sono andati i tre, quelle sorelle rare
dai nostri posti nascosti
nobility della morte ancora
questa ciotola d'argento antica di mine
pensate, il mio ragazzo, quando metto i miei bracci intorno voi
sopra loro tutte, osservando giĂą
al lover appassionato

 



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