ARROW
When the tail of a comet
Subtle touch my pen,
She will be the bolt
Who furrows the blues;
Running old loves
With his poet\'s ink,
But, if it were not so,
Believing in my destiny
I will decline from my verses;
And tie with red roses
The sob of my hands
In the garden of oblivion.
Jorge Aimar Francese Hardaick
Argentina
Derechos reservados del autor (*)
Argentina
(fotografía tomada de la web)