You could barely articulate Word
for fear of spoiling those feelings
naming them aloud, and hath chosen
You then dissolve in the aniseed air,
aware that never estaríais so close.
When I think of I as a young man cultivated
melancholy moments which silkworms,
how far I was suspect that any
born deformed and I devour
just as he añorase the joy of time,
lost youth, that subtle talent
to speak of death at the time that filled
caresses a body followed by grace.
Who could tell you than those you trenzabas
primitive wreaths you marchitarían
as soon between the hands. Talking of late,
old mansions and ruined houses,
Dark sounds and nests of another time,
provincial streets and sonatas by Czerny,
but they were then words only,
death and misery no more words
as were shadow, Mockingbird, or cypress.