Poetry

When the night was swamping him
with epileptic frame
he was walking without limbs.

The awakening was painful.
Drinking his own blood
breaking his own bones.

This largesse was tempting.
No guaranteed death,
you will live with grenades.

Grief was priceless.
Only nightingale will exercise
for the fallen miracles.

He declared at incendiary pyre
to become a phoenix
which never was.

It was an ethical question
to laugh or to weep.
Man was made unmade.