In the clock without station
In the clock without station
In the clock without station
figures of migrant skins.
From their sweat emanate rivers
like the geysers in the city
after the rain.
A cold freezes the blood
when he breaks the cord of his land.
They walk with a sore soul
in the ticking of the clock without station.
Many do not wait for the sun,
they only see in the distance
The death of color in the rainbow of your sky.
A new footprint after the flight,
the walkers sprout in any direction.
Their shadows are reflected
in the sacrifice of loneliness.
Separator
Original by @corderosiete
11/15/2018
11/15/2018
Dear Artzonian, thanks for using the #ArtzOne hashtag. Your work is valuable to the @ArtzOne community. Quote of the week: Art, freedom and creativity will change society faster than politics. -Victor Pinchuk
Thanks for your support @artzone. Greetings.
Your poem touches the soul friend. Thanks for this great poem
Thank you for your words, my friend