Passerby

I met a priest who knew my land
From the colours of my poncho
Who told me he spent ten nights there
In the stadium, 1973.

They stole a dream and smashed its hand.
I had not been born. It was long ago.
But it was a sigh we could share.
He thanked me for the warm memory.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s