abril 29, 2006


Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicybone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message
He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cottongloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever;
I waswrong.
The stars are not wanted now:
put out everyone;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood,
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

1 Comments:

Blogger Hannanur said...

Um beijinho A. Obrigada pela mensagem.

12:56 da manhã  

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