Green lilac buds appear that won't survive
Only a whiter absence to my mind,
What? What can you do?
A kind of snow, which hesitates
What can we know of whatever picture-plane
She stretches a hand toward the toothy sleeper
He is harsh, dismal, ice—that is, exiled;
By bloody pool—rattling, gasping his last.
Père and Mère Chose could be in conversation
Oh you builders,
By bloody pool—rattling, gasping his last.
Dismal, endless plain—
Covering the land—
Rain. We are forced to fly,
The edge of that other square cut from the right
Escapees from the cold work of living,
Over the chilly dale.
At San Biagio, in the most intense room
Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing
Only a whiter absence to my mind,
What? What can you do?
A kind of snow, which hesitates
What can we know of whatever picture-plane
She stretches a hand toward the toothy sleeper
He is harsh, dismal, ice—that is, exiled;
By bloody pool—rattling, gasping his last.
Père and Mère Chose could be in conversation
Oh you builders,
By bloody pool—rattling, gasping his last.
Dismal, endless plain—
Covering the land—
Rain. We are forced to fly,
The edge of that other square cut from the right
Escapees from the cold work of living,
Over the chilly dale.
At San Biagio, in the most intense room
Silence. Your way of being. Your way of seeing
No comments:
Post a Comment