Children of our Fathers

We still live
on the brink of nothingness,

between the north and south of the seasons

We still sleep

on stone pillows,

like our fathers

We still follow the same clouds,

resting in the shadows of thorn trees

We still drink down our tea while swallowing fire

and we walk barefoot not to frighten the silence

And in the distance

at the edge of the mirage

we still watch, every evening the sun fall into the sea.

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