
Good Friday
At your feet I lay my love.
A head hung in shame
from the site of the old tree.
One of three
pieces, a broken frame
at your feet I lay. My love.
It is a mystery
how I AM came
from the site of the old tree.
To open my eyes and see
at your right a Notre Dame
at your feet. I lay. My Love.
A beloved as if he
wished the same
from the site of the old tree.
Then to die and free
the world of vain.
At your feet I lay. My love
from the site of the old tree.
2 comments:
¿qué sobre toda la gente quiénes no tienen una voz, que se ocupará de ella?.
I like it. Excellent use of minimalism!
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