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all'alba, ha detto
la mia madre twines me rose bagnate con rugiada
veda, da questa falsificazione di lui
li ha fatti mai sentono parlare
lasci il unsaid bello di parole
la mia anima č un campo arato scuro
candele che si rovesciano obliquamente in latte del pomodoro
la figlia, l'arte di thou viene morire
guardi indietro con gli occhi longing e sappia che seguirņ
tristi sono che conoscono non l'amore
ciņ č la canzone della gioventł
quando, pieno di amore caldo e desideroso
dove io trovili

 



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