Broken ones. Zealots marching down the street,
the flesh of their fathers as a banner,
of struggles unfinished, of chariots left in the dust,
of sounds that turned to sand.
Nameless ones. Zealots shedding skin,
fingernails as deities
to surpress our need to regret,
everytime we swallowed Jonah in our Leviathan bellies.
They sacrificed the floods,
to nurture the Truth above.
But to their own surprise,
there CANNOT be two skies.
Δεν υπάρχουν σχόλια:
Δημοσίευση σχολίου