My gardens
In the garden there is so much destroyed
by the hands of an invalid fool poet,
did not know what spring declined to think about a renewal
of dreams and transformations, not following the speed of time,
constant, but at the same time deleterious.
In the garden where the decayed hopes slumber,
waving the end of the storm and inevitable
that one day could be at least some of hope.
I entered in, and I see my remains by forgotten corners
of the dungeon; aborted by futile expectation of a joy
that no more than a delusion.
And this penetrating mud quicksand, how much do I have?
Just be sure not and never implied
in every line and every thought,
the graying and faltering tone for my insanity...
Nenhum comentário:
Postar um comentário