Poezja

For you
I am walking on rocks
holding unburnt match sticks,
you want me to throw them
behind me.

To step down in lake
for washing sins
from the snuffed out
skylights.
Between green and blue I climb on leaves.

Remained pygmies
till end,
in frail human relationships.
All that we saw, was only for ourselves
in questions and replies.

Wasting shine of titles,
followed by empty looks.
Nothing remained to be said.
Food was left on the plate
untouched.