quinta-feira, 21 de janeiro de 2016

A poem

The cloudy sky just opened itself to tell us the Moon is here.
Now I wonder who's gonna take the candles away so the Church could finally deliver the sky and stars from up above.
As I walk into my gracious pain, the grief and loneliness stab my heart with a shiny little thunder that wakes the Bears out of their bed.
Hope is the only thing I've got.
And by hope we mean our natural right to see the dust among the stars far, far away from here.
Unattached by its surface.
How long it takes us to find luck again?

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