THE CARAVAN | TAKIS PIERRAKOS

The horizon is hidden by waves;
Above, the chief wins way
Surveying everything
Like a scorching spy,
We are walking in a sigle file
Wrapped in the animal smells
And in our body odors.
The desert is breathing out
Directly on our faces;
The thought of every traveller
Becomes his own tornment.
A pair of snakes, tightly knitted;
One is trying to bite the other.

By Takis Pierrakos

18780cookie-checkTHE CARAVAN | TAKIS PIERRAKOS

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