Jeanette
un relato breve
Death
Flowers
are best at farewell.
Their scented lap
makes enough for a bed
with dreamy boughs,
if only porcelain.
Deaf
What a bliss,
to hear the vowels of silence
and stick to their saying,
the soundless monologue
that brings words to bay.
It is final,
the speaker reincarnates
as an all-existence
in the wry mouth of a cliff
where nothing listens.
How touching,
seeing shouts in the air.
Down, the waves seize me
into myself, and I but drowse
to this private meaning.
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de «Tim y el Trastero del Tiempo» haciendo click aquí:
https://lauravlhenche.wordpress.com/tim-y-el-trastero-del-tiempo/
