Broad sun-stoned beaches.
White heat.
A green river.
A bridge,
scorched yellow palms
from the summer-sleeping house
drowsing through August.
Days I have held,
days I have lost,
days that outgrow, like daughters,
my harbouring arms.
Se o presidente lê, porque não puderei eu neste alentejo chuvoso também poder ler?
Etiquetas: Arte