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l'alba era verde mela
ho fatto una pausa la stoffa per tendine aperta
la neve bisbiglia circa me
ci erano tre nel prato dal ruscello
mi sono levato in piedi
è aumentato e l'ambra era il tramonto sul fiume
un poet, prendente il freno fuori della sua linguetta
lĂ  dalla finestra nella vecchia casa
le preghiere bianche piccole
quando il vento funziona contro di noi nell'oscuritĂ 
per venire così presto a questo ha immaginato l'oscurità


 



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