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spanish poem

la figlia, l'arte di thou viene morire
dal sud alla rottura del giorno
che probabilitŕ spiteful ruba i unawares
la mia anima č un campo arato scuro
fra il fumo e nebbia di un pomeriggio di dicembre
tengo il vostro cuore
il vecchio ovest, il vecchio tempo
se muoio, pensi soltanto questo me
risiedo alla montagna della tabella
non sia arrabbiato con me
ho visto le nubi fra le colline
ma alas, sogni giusti
nel gather di nerezza e chiedono

 



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