Tlaquepaque

These cobbled streets are all to mend my soul.
Broken, torn, and weathered stones are where I walk
Trudging along, powered by steam and coal.
If the path behind could find words to talk
or if the road ahead could bare a sign,
I wouldn’t need to look above to gawk
Reaching for an umbrella as a line
to lift me up and off this tarnished mass
And live in the heavens with you as mine.
But the sky will remain as fragile glass,
Scattered, stained, with fragments turned into sand.
As I wait for this road to find ends pass,
I will dream of a place above clay land.

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