I built a home with desert stones
at the golden hour of August.
My arms were caked in dirt like gloves,
it all was full of hardened leaves,
when I was full of light pink clouds.
Will it withstand a gust of wind?
Is it how proper builders look?
Just nothing — air above stripped trees,
which turned to thorns and brooms.
I never faced my fist before, but steer
on breath. Not flesh, not stone —
but as the hollow it leaves alone.
The desert and the fist, which leans
on darkened sky, not land.
Sure. I was born to stay and see
how leaves would turn to sand.
I built a home with desert stones...
© Copyright: Анна Аион, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126083107660
Свидетельство о публикации №126083107660
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