I met an old Indian,
With hands that trembled,
And an uncertainty in his sleep,
He would bow his head like a priest,
But I could still see into his endlessly black eyes,
As the plane grew higher and higher,
He never said a word,
And as the sun touched his tunneled brown skin through the window,
I felt a twinge of pain that I could not name.
2 comments:
awws is so ... felt.
THIS is the sort of poetry I wish I could write when I meet a random person in the grocery store and want to write a poem about them. Thank you.
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