Migrants 2


Migrants, the sound of undertow on the bare, white skulls,

On the shores of the sea of death,

Gulls howl over the remains of weary poets.

Torn wounds and memories of brutal necks,

strangers drag on the shores of orange blossoms,

to the fractious lands of venal friars.

They reopen the houses of Bacchus as we scan the horizon,

admiring the dark land of memories and coveted normality,

let me die accross the bridge, but

Let me still dream of the love of the woman 

In the white dress that greets me, smelling of salt

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