ancient dreaming

An old pain
climbs up the sounds
of the city beneath.
I pass
through the ace of spades,
carrying the pain on my back;
people stare at my eyes,
my footsteps keep following me.
I pass
through the gates,
I try to conceal my smoking dreams
into the valley of my wits.
I pass
once again,
my footpath walks beside me;
as I look back
desperate soldiers try to cover
their luminescent horror.

(imagem retirada da net)