Syracuse suddenly
Slid across the border;
The old architecture,
still a mile away from
The millennium,
chases time.
I see the horses of slavery
Plowing the lands. Today, metal
Horses web these outskirts.
They still take gold to be
Hammered into paper that transforms
Into dust by sunrise.
Copyright © 2010 Leslie Alexis
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem