jesse salas
Poeta que considera el portal su segunda casa
White Souls
The children's laughter jump with the cotton
of their innocents. Tiptoeing on the silver bear
of the old time,....that does not know hours nor
wears a watch. The strong carob tree offerts it's
arms to the rainbow that swing from it,
Dragging its nude feet bye the blond hair of the
the wheat,...that grow far way from the from the
blind heatred. That sheltered by its scarf of
badness,.....that crosses between the red river of
its war's. In a word with a sky that is dripping
fear and evil; on a field painted with the fingers of
peace,......to the skirt of the noble oak...small clovers
sprout raising white Souls bells of fire.
On the parchment of life,....with love unfolding
short song nightingale. Tear s of Angel of our
humanity.
Jesse Salas
The children's laughter jump with the cotton
of their innocents. Tiptoeing on the silver bear
of the old time,....that does not know hours nor
wears a watch. The strong carob tree offerts it's
arms to the rainbow that swing from it,
Dragging its nude feet bye the blond hair of the
the wheat,...that grow far way from the from the
blind heatred. That sheltered by its scarf of
badness,.....that crosses between the red river of
its war's. In a word with a sky that is dripping
fear and evil; on a field painted with the fingers of
peace,......to the skirt of the noble oak...small clovers
sprout raising white Souls bells of fire.
On the parchment of life,....with love unfolding
short song nightingale. Tear s of Angel of our
humanity.
Jesse Salas
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