/Поглед.инфо/
Grass sprouts in our halting footsteps
and the silence looks like a nest.
It’s forever until Sunday.
Now it’s Friday – time for crucifixion.
Our life is a cross. Nails flash.
The clay is cracked on the bodies.
Eyes fill with hunger for space,
the blood in our hearts does not fit.
We are silent so as not to utter a curse.
We suffer to save what we have.
We waste our souls to the wind,
but someone takes them to space.
By the time we know, it will be too late.
We don’t know now, but we are full of time
dusty love to baptize us
and let the good seed germinate in us.
Our bodies are getting wiser.
Something real is slowly maturing.
It’s not long until Sunday
so that we know – the cross is not a fairy tale.
#Grass #sprouts #steps #stopped..
