It's raining red and blue,
The gypsy kids are running in the mud over there,
Their hair is wet, trickling with deep cold ice from the starry eyes.
I am watching
Their bare nomad feet,
as they walk
Upon crimson heat,
Weaving the blue tapestry.
And we are over here,
In the clear, we think we got it made.
Your are standing there
In your discomfort,
With your eyes of marine
Deep and cold,
You are watching mine,
And I wonder if my eyes
Hide the truth.
Or the deep blue is the reflection of my disquiet soul.
Oct 15, 2020
Ana Sunaric
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