lunes, 22 de octubre de 2012
Vincent Van Gogh, forgive me, I was late
To give you help and ease you fate.
I did not cover with soft grass
Your burnt by sun and stony path.
I ought to have removed your dusty shoes.
I did not do it, did not heal your bruise.
On hot and dusty day I did not give you water,
I let you die, commit self- slaughter.
I often see a cypress’ twisted flame
Over my head, as heaven’s cunning game;
Bright-yellow tree crown against a brilliant-blue sky
Without them I could not be myself, I could not fly.
I would humiliate my own verse
Not wishing that I were your faithful nurse.
A clear hardness of his strong wide lines
Leads me through all the words to find my rhymes.
It gives us power above all czars,
Takes us into the night where we can breathe with stars.