The bus crawls
through the charred Sunday air.
A Sunday in autumn.
A woman gets on, tiny baby in arms,
wedged between belly and breasts.
Leaves are falling.
The driver is listening to the Liturgy on the radio.
I Am Still Young
Beyond repair
Soon Enough
I am still young
I am still young, my love
The bus crawls
Memories hang inside me
I level the grave
People gather around him
Soon Enough
I am still young
I am still young, my love
The bus crawls
Memories hang inside me
I level the grave
People gather around him
AuthorDenisa Duran