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poetry poem

le stelle sono caduto da cielo
fra il fumo e nebbia di un pomeriggio di dicembre
sono vecchio e cieco
la mia anima è un campo arato scuro
le montagne sono gente silenziosa
sopra loro tutte, osservando giù
in pieno delle rotture
contro la fiamma verde dell'cratego-albero
era non per quell'odore singolare
mi levo in piedi nel tempo grigio freddo
potremmo ma sapere
e con l'uccello di ronzio
quegli occhi neri i una volta così elogiato

 



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