Poezja

Blackened silence was holding the reflectivity,
reality was on the run.
Exile was complete.
Dark secrets, standing on head
remained buried in your chest
absorbing all colors of sun.

A night remembers the friends
who went over the hills one by one
to find the pugmarks of panther
that was killing your infant biographies.
The world stood bodyguard
not allowing any immortality.

Your speech was clear, but unheard
in terror of burnt-out principles.
New sleeping cells are coming up for a
metaphysical revolt. A heron was
stabbed by soaring kites
in the golden valley.