Voices as rusty as the materials they were working with, yet sturdy, notes that could hold the weight of gravity, deep enough to dig their own hole. They are bright-colored men working tirelessly under the sun, which had painted their costumes a bright neon orange striped with yellow.
Loud machines shrieking and wailing, disturbing the deep slumber of domestic trees who lean away from the terrifying noise. The trees long for dreams to come, to fall asleep to the melodies birds sing, which hang in the wind like colorful lanterns.
These buildings all around me, as old as history recalls, dressed in naked wood-like ancient artifacts in a museum-that will soon be ready to survive through the years that may come.
YOU ARE READING
Beyond the Words
Poetry"A poem begins with a lump in the throat." (Robert Frost) Collection of poems, Volume One (2012-2013) © Copyright by Dahlia Pimentel. All rights reserved.
