Poezja

It should not have happened
this way, or that way,
rendering breathing difficult
in the intense smoke of misunderstanding.
The granite wall between the doors!

You grope through a thicket of words
crossing the centuries of hate.
Sun, no sun settles for the hope
of a slain blankness, to properly
heave, a sigh after the childbirth of truth.

All the dead white bones, jutting out
from the ancestral incompleteness of
forgetfulness of man to accept gracefully
the suffering of neighbourhood. The very
feel of sharing a god.

You are what you are not
I am not, what I am.