Fragments of the future by Stefano Donno

 








The train runs fast along the oxymoron of light
out the window at the passing of time it is as sweet as the apocalypse
red black convoy of despair
and there is a fabulous place to go
the winter thirsty bushes go to die without pain
while the wind erodes the narrow fingers firmly in prayer
and it is unreal the frame of the evening descends brown
and not escape the ghosts scary on the plain of excruciating hill
exhaling the madness of the day in an afternoon without peace