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poetry poem

ascolti il mare suonante
per venire cosě presto a questo ha immaginato l'oscuritŕ
come esso
non posso ora dirvi
sonno dolce nelle vostre tombe humble
la figlia, l'arte di thou viene morire
non brucio incenso
benchč sia piccolo come tutte le cose piccole
ci sono tre sensi in cui gli uomini prendono
lasci il unsaid bello di parole
un cielo che non ha conosciuto mai il sole, la luna o le stelle

 



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