Heaven
means nothing
to the elderly poor.
Nor do the rays that make possible
a woman’s beautiful hair
mean anything to them.
In silence
they return to their past
illumined by shadows
of broken bottles, and they don’t
forget
that their wounds
have stained spring’s tunic purple.
The young people
who love them
and who fight
to give them back
their dignity of offended gods
belong
to the highest class
of society.
Posted by parisar on March 9, 2012
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