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son poem

fiore bianco della gomma piuma, fiore rosso della fiamma
un miglio dietro
e come potreste sogno della riunione
da me indegno e sconosciuto
quanto selvaggio, come strega-come bizzarro che la vita dovrebbe essere
in vostri bracci era il piacere tranquillo
tutti dentro e tutti senza di me
parla non bene
quando ho rinviato al tramonto
dove io trovili
rinnovi la visione di piacere
perchè allora, il mosto noi vede?

 



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