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short love poem

perchč sono le cose che non hanno morte
nelle mattine nube-grige
pensieri tramite la mia testa
se fossi molto sicuro
uccelli contro il vento di aprile
fino alla sua finestra dell'alloggiamento
mai in tutta la mia vita
chi chiamerŕ il vento
il padrone dei destini umani sono io
ci č una cittŕ, builded da nessuna mano
gli archi del ponticello rosso
potrebbe conoscerla nella molla piů in anticipo
sono il vento che esita

 



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