I saw a man with a crest-fallen smile, pack slung wide across his back. Carrying his mountains of burden, tin-sketched lines told stories on his forehead. But his eyes were kind. His face told of stories far away, shadowed fantasys and foreign lands. His rough, grief-laden hands were made of smoke. Smouldering with ancient legends, trembling words to be given as a gift. His footsteps told a tale, and the present of his presence slipped by.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Please comment!