Lightly, listlessly, my thoughts of sorrow float like algae in the wind's sleep... Slack strands of hair of the water's dead body.

Like dead leaves they float
Along the standing waters...
things dressed in nithing
After whirling at the doors
Of deserted houses.

Incurable sleep of being,
Vestige of what never was,
Slight pain, brief tedium,
I don't know if it stops or flows,
If it aches or just is.

Puedo preguntar a mi libro
si es verdad que yo lo escribí ?