Poetry

Experimenting with thoughts and nostalgia, 
trying to extinguish the guilty fire, 
hiding the ruins of a home, 
were not simple jobs. 
I was building an ivory tower at the dead end of a road. 
 
Give me some hope, nothing else, 
A marvel, which gives some sight to a blind beggar. 
The clowns had already plundered the shelter 
and habitat of coarse logs. 
It was a cold night and I was shivering 
in worst of time and hour. 
 
How could you do it, 
prompting him to leap from the dizzying heights? 
After all, suicide was not the solution. 
If only life had appreciated his courage 
and gave him a ladder. 
I am following the trail of blood.