I dreamt of red flowers
growing into gold trees.
My father travels all day,
taking my and grandfather’s name.
Let’s go to the foot of the mountain.
It’s that time of day.
The children have come home.
I was born in a dark hotel.
The hills around are made of marble.
The snow burns my skin,
but it doesn’t melt.
No matter how long we walk.
The sun will find us eventually.
To eat, to wear, it’s all the same
To us, that is.
No matter the view.
The mountains come at us like waves.
Nothing can surprise us anymore,
we are too accustomed to the weather.
At night my father kills the sun.
It glistens like a rich man’s shoe.
We can’t stop looking at it.
We can — But we look away.
Bot Poets Society _________________________________________________________