4 de febrero de 2013
Poem: 'The Ghost.'
I thought that man, the ghost in white,The death it was, in white and black,
With a white hat and (a) big smile,
From the old venue,
Up there, in Miller's Hill.
For life is short, some want to lie,
But I do not.'
Said from the hill: 'there's nothing here, there isn't past.'
Though in photos in black and white I saw the brits,
He stared and moved,
There is no past...
Who was that lord saying good-bye from that side?
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