How many pretty things Have a poet to describe an old bridge. Start with the information Of that the moon That was not new, That she was not full, That was declining But, exactly thus, Had its beauty and it clareava everything. I park my look for the river, Of far I see to far, Far from the bridge and far from everything, Forgotten even the moon, a flame would fish to clarear It of a man. As if the moon did not exist, I follow. Official site: John Mclaughlin.
My legs donate, are tired. Start to think About all the hunters, In the nocturnal fishing, the tired peasants, the loving illegal passengers, the rose that sleeps innocent To the wait that arrives the day, world to color it. I stop. Suddenly I saw me exactly Entering in me, As if everything that Was a particular scene. But, unhappyly the war Exists to kill the moon, to destroy the bridge That binds a world to the other. To destroy the peasants. A bridge was a time.