Freedom

Freedom

freedom
4. soil. red.
our looks are homeless
the body remembers everything
departing from the temple
(empty)
border
house for migratory birds
home
signs

the bus smells of shoes
and morning yawns of
canned beer

smokers shift in the cold

new arrivals
wait nervously for the number
for their baggage

those that are leaving
hang around
they fear
they accidently left something behind

the driver leans drowsy
on his palms
and waits for the sign
to cross the border

2018-08-21T17:23:49+00:00 November 2nd, 2000|Categories: Poetry, Blesok no. 98|0 Comments