A self crowned sorrow
Wears the plumaged men,
And beauty is in the momentary truth:
The concrete jungle offers
Dazzling constraints,
Into the ruins of their cities
They become broken statues
Gnawed by thoughts.
The sun sets for a last time
In the lively ruins.
Hearts break, minds suffer.
A man of stone passes
A man of stone,
They unearth lucid dreams
Passing by and only wondering
What resurrection could be had
In a simple "hello".
To each an island
In a tower of silence,
Their light builds
Shadows that haunt.
They pass the lovely forms,
Green pines on a shore,
Rolling hills of oak,
The swaying wind
Kissing the sea.
In the ruins they dwell,
Propping high into empty skies,
To stretch their senses
Into the living hour:
The truth escapes
Their brimming cups.
Children of the Dust