Interweaving without touching us,
the last bell rings at the hands of death.
Dust, earth,
crumbs of a longing that was not.
Dreams that restart in each apocalypse.
God is getting tired,
he is on his umpteenth creation and still has not improved his technique.
.
.
.
Entretejieñéndonos sin tocarnos,
suena la última campananada a manos de la muerte.
Polvo, tierra,
migajas de un anhelo que no fue.
Sueños que se reinician en cada apocalipsis.
Dios se está cansando,
va por su enésima creación y aún no mejora su técnica.
© Enrique Yecier
Images and text of my property.
Fotos y texto de mi propiedad.
For the best experience view this post on Liketu