From afar, he sees them all,
Entering to the temple of their ignorance; foreign hall.
From ritual to ritual they fall.
He whispers in the depths of his head:
“Pretending they are small,
How come they did not hear the call?
“Such a clouded judgment, they adore,
Understanding left on the floor,
Why did they refuse to raise their sword in times of war?
Did they forget their own roar?”
And so, he cries for the ignorance of his sisters and brothers,
Tears become numbers,
Numbers into wonders
And wonders into different colors.
“From afar, I must stay,
For clay will dry one day,
Soon enough they will learn to play,
Instead of endless pray.
“Winds of tomorrow will teach them,
They will hold their hearts like a gem,
No longer would they feel condemned,
An end to the spiritual mayhem.”
Copyright © 2017 Manuel Osornio-emotionsoflife2016
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