How many miles they passed
until they reached the consolation here?
How many lonely souls
became a little lonelier?
How many worlds
appeared on the maps
of their wrinkles?
How many times they lived
and how many they died
until they reached the state
where time doesn't matter?
Are they alive
or are they just a dream
I saw this afternoon in sun-bathed garden
abandoned long ago
where grass grow
through the roof
and windowpanes are covered
with rust and silky dust of days?
Or are they maybe us?
What we'll become
in endless years of pushing further
the borders of our worlds;
of walking empty roads
filled with the stray souls;
of attempts to remember
our home.
where the road had led them
© Copyright: Донни Маклеод, 2017
Свидетельство о публикации №117031301314
Свидетельство о публикации №117031301314
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