The Box
The brain inside the box, landscapes of maps,
where needless like a compass, stitch the way,
cleaver, but not as often wiser,
like grain of sand, no much important, at the blowing wind.
Hunt by nature, ice and dry, shaping our life
Survivor in this mud, where silence flies emerges.
The ancestor corps
Time and age, the gods we pray.
The primordial silence, now awake
Thunder staring, mountain boiling,
and the valley harvest, grain and maize,
at the cloud shadowing skies.
And the man called it paradise.
And so the city wall, arise
inside our mind.
Dwell in temples, manmade,
for gods to stay.
Just another dream, inside the box,
pouring tears, made for last.
Billion's years,
and then disappears.
Emptiness, is to be fill.
Of dreams made real
by the man's eyes, by the soul light.
The gift that god gave to us
the story of our life's
the faith and the fight
the empty box of life.
To be fill....
poem by Luca Menin
Added by Poetry Lover
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