The Men With No Name

Without memory or name
those poor men walk
in the twilight of their lives,
already longing for their departure.




They see their days spent
stranded on the platforms,
they have thrown themselves on the tracks
but trains no longer pass.




They no longer feel hate or love,
they have lost their hearts
in their chest there is an engine
that works for no reason.




And every day they calmly think to
break the stained glass window of their souls,
cut that red thread from their fingers
and knot it around their necks.




That ravine whispers to them
to fly away from the past,
their lives are blank canvases
that were never painted.




But they can't paint
the end point yet.
They ignore that what moves mountains
is not faith, but the scythe.

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The Men With No Name

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