Being
The swinging shirt in the wind is flowing down on Her bones. The rest of muscles,...
& skin thin like a parchment. Only a number supposed to be seen...,
it is engraved like in a carraric marble.
Nails bit in the hours of fright, knees rubbed raw in the begging prayers,
head is shaved, clean..., without sign of acclaim.
Naked feet, they are glory the ground they are walking on.
She is standing in that way, dressed in her dignity...
& her eyes are still full of shine, they are not looking in a nothingness,
they are with a hope for a better tomorrow.
The swinging shirt in the wind is flowing down on Her bones. The rest of muscles,...
& skin thin like a parchment. Only a number supposed to be seen...,
it is engraved like in a carraric marble.
Nails bit in the hours of fright, knees rubbed raw in the begging prayers,
head is shaved, clean..., without sign of acclaim.
Naked feet, they are glory the ground they are walking on.
She is standing in that way, dressed in her dignity...
& her eyes are still full of shine, they are not looking in a nothingness,
they are with a hope for a better tomorrow.
