Sunday, February 28, 2016
I go up slopes with humour in my legs,
I go to the slopes where rigour is turbulent;
My books in the head display a situation,
My book is relaxed with its condition,
Its second-hand condition, doomed and final.
I go to the gradient of the service and pleasure,
For the moment is happy as the hills,
For the brain destroys like a shark in water;
My sloped hill is a goon and ghost for the
The time it stays in the head, in the heart.
I repent and repeat to distance myself,
I go to the hill, the mountain and countryside;
My walking is my running, mine only,
For my legs and hands feel pressure and pain,
Like the cylinder of health and the circle of hardship.
Topic(s) of this poem: hill