this Sunday i will be with Tony <br />my cousin with one arm left, <br />a machine ate his left arm, <br />his wife left him and his only son <br />does not recognize him anymore, <br /> <br />oh, it's a sad story, and it's <br />pity in real action, but i let him <br />express himself, <br />he is a good mountain <br />walker. <br /> <br />this Sunday, we agreed on a trek <br />in Tabon, where the trees are still trees. <br />The path is narrow, and <br />the grasses are taller. <br /> <br />we do not hunt for birds, <br />we simply watch them. <br />we do not speak that much <br />we agreed to simply listen <br /> <br />the sound of the forest wind <br />the shadows of the hills cast by the setting sun <br />the mud on our feet <br />the sweat on our brows <br /> <br />at night, when we are all alone <br />we begin to tell our stories again <br />those where wives are not interested to listen <br />those which do not make husbands cry <br /> <br />over a cup of hot coffee <br />i recite a sad poem that i have not the courage to write for once. <br /> <br />now it is not about love <br />it is more about death and revenge <br /> <br />Tony will like it.<br /><br />RIC S. BASTASA<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/this-sunday/
