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prose poetry

il pietoso piccolo, portato, facce ridere
la sua faccia č giusta e liscia e fine
bello
come esso
la notte era nera e drear
limps con la fermata del passo doloroso
contro la fiamma verde dell'cratego-albero
sia in me come gli atteggiamenti eternal
tempesta
la figlia, l'arte di thou viene morire
impaurito nient'altro, dico
amo la mia ora di vento e di luce
quando ero un ragazzo all'universitŕ

 



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