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writing poetry

il mio figlio č guasto e sono ciechi andanti
non rimanga nient'altro
ho scagliato la mia anima all'aria come un volo del falco
sono stancare di essere amaro e stancare di essere saggio
rose ed oro
quando le ore del giorno sono numerate
come le aquile sul high alto
riempio questa tazza
č ci qualcuno lŕ
chi chiamerŕ il vento
quando libertŕ dalla sua altezza della montagna
sopra i tetti corra le ombre delle nubi
il mio dispiacere, quando č qui con me

 



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