Uncertainty weaves with its mists
figures of migrant skins.
From their sweat emanate rivers
like the geysers in the city
after the rain.
A cold freezes the blood
when he breaks the cord of his land.
They walk with a sore soul
in the ticking of the clock without station.
Many do not wait for the sun,
they only see in the distance
The death of color in the rainbow of your sky.
A new footprint after the flight,
the walkers sprout in any direction.
Their shadows are reflected
in the sacrifice of loneliness.
@corderosiete11/15/2018
