Setting free

I throw myself together with my verse
in the eternity
among ghosts of rude horses,
the freedom is a symphony with wings,
above my head.
If you like to look at the sun
you’ll the foreheads bearing the remoteness,
swallows sit under the eaves of your greed,
their wing couldn’t rouse pasts and dead men,
only the sky is the mirage
of these unlimited worlds,
and angels with their interrupted flight
throw their hair over the sons’ shoulders
wings are bleeding
in the chemise of the time