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death poem

bucks neri grassi in una stanza del vino-barilotto
dite che lo amate
sono il vento che esita
qui cade nessuna luce
non c'sono nessuna preda io dei pensieri difficili
fra il fumo e nebbia di un pomeriggio di dicembre
chi ama la pioggia
la luna aumentante ha nascosto le stelle
ho lanciato il mondo
sono fevered
fiore bianco della gomma piuma, fiore rosso della fiamma
senza dubbio mi ricordo di ancora

 



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