Drunk

Drunk, whiteness hoards its strength,
When you sleep, sun drunk, like a seed
That holds its breath
Beneath the soil. To dream in heat
All heat
That infests the equilibrium
Of a hand, that germinates
The miracle of dryness . . .
In each place you have left
Wolves are maddened
By the leaves that will not speak.
To die. To welcome red wolves
Scratching at the gates: howling
Page--or you sleep, and the sun
Will never be finished.
It is green where black seeds breathe.

Paul Auster

________________________________________
Se gostas de Poesia ajuda a divulgar este Blog
Tem cerca de 2000 poemas dos mais diversos autores