|Photo by Agustin Berrocal|
Courtesy : The Mag
Built vaguely on meticulous ideals, his anxiety
Reached frivolous peaks. His tainted lips lost
All of its moist red and showed a tinge of lost gray,
The muddy vest, half torn by the gruesome times,
Was ripped apart by the beast that tasted gold.
Hardwork is a friend who guides you to places,
Maybe for him, the friend was the only one ever,
With him he walked before the Sun shined for him,
With him he returned after his daily venture,
With non-existent treasures.
He would dig and reach the other side of Earth
They said, but his insanity was often mistaken
For a patience that he ever unearthed. He dug
Like a mad man, he even found the bones of
A solitary maiden who was buried alive!
He dug, this day that year, he would dig, this day
Next year, he would have dug in the years to come,
Though destiny was buried somewhere close,
And eventually he found it too, he took it
Home and locked it with the maiden's bones.
All that glitters was not gold, but what he found
Indeed was. His eyes never did adjust to the
Intense light, his hands shivered, his heart stopped
Its relentless beats. All his life stood before him,
He took the treasure, locked it along with destiny,
And went to dig the next day!