When I think about time, I see a painting of a young boy with torn shorts, dirty school shirt, cracked lips, muddy feet, waiting for his time to be loved in a green old car as his bed, waiting to be fed, his soul as pure as a diamond.
Portal for Writers and Poets in South Africa
When I think about time, I see a painting of a young boy with torn shorts, dirty school shirt, cracked lips, muddy feet, waiting for his time to be loved in a green old car as his bed, waiting to be fed, his soul as pure as a diamond.
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