Walking on the Limbo of Lost Words




Walking on the Limbo of Lost Words


the lighthouse of the indefinite
trafficking voices of absence,
skeleton walls smuggle freedom.

My country: a poem under an illegal shade.
A sun full of cameras rides
my skin like ghosts
who claim what is rightfully theirs.

I lead the echoes of my flight
to a heart masked
as theatrical delirium,
my wrinkled memoir  
dancing to Etta Jones’s 
Don’t go to Strangers.

I touch your lips
with my revolutionary blood
and leave my confession  

on your cinnamon eyes.

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