Cloud-walking, face illuminated.
But instead,
Trumpets, calling under the skylights,
Stop time with intent to kill.
The magic synthesis of red drops and
raid-sirens circles like symbolic logic.
All over, marching boys triumph
Over the shadows spoken by an idiot.
The marching boys,
Chosen, are cast adrift
under the disguise of love
To find deep cover and wait for the night,
To dream of April hopes
And of whatever love is.
I am caught,
Where the light falls in this world of dreams,
Wishing on a comet.
by: Raymond Alistair
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| Taken from http://www.worldatlas.com/webimage/countrys/asia/afghanistan/afpics/descriptionpics/bamiyanvalley.jpg |
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