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broken heart poem

i poets dicono a
che probabilitŕ spiteful ruba i unawares
questa ciotola d'argento antica di mine
la sua faccia č giusta e liscia e fine
basso! 'tis un la notte di gala
desolato e solo
pensieri tramite la mia testa
corsa alto-sopportata
se lo slayer rosso pensa slays
lungamente fa la luce solare di estate lucidare
ora che mi sono raffreddato a voi
era non per quell'odore singolare
non ho saputo mai che la terra ha avuta cosě tanto oro
aranci di coglitura nubian blu-neri

 



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