I can be
The wounded boy
You can be the mother
But I never get that luxury
Instead, the wound spreads
Like a pool of blood over the bed
And never stops
The middle class
Do not mother
Wounded boys
From the gutter
They like to prepare
For themselves
Stone sarcophagi in churches
To rest in for eternity
One day a policeman
Will bring the wounded boy
Into the church
Where you lie
He will clutch
At the stone body and cry
And then be taken away
Edebiyat · Fotoğraf
Write what you feel, coz it doesn't make you fear
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Pretextul acestui blog este mica mea colecție de fotografii vechi. În timp s-a transformat în pasiune. O pasiune care ne trimite, pe noi, cei de azi, în lumea de altădată, prin intermediul unor fotografii de epocă.
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