Play the child with a few rocks in the planter innocent
worn and broken
as old cloth.
I wonder what irremediable disaster
separates his hands from my beach front,
his mouth from my eyes impassive. And I beg
the gentleman who know shake often
the quiet sadness of flowers, the sacred tree
sleeping habit. Unwittingly
vaguely lonely child
pushes the Shrew fury of things, forgetting the dark splendor
blind and he despises me.
Eliseo Diego (1920-1994)
0 comments:
Post a Comment