Poezja

You are not with yourself today.
Conversation was stopped, from cloud to cloud.
Now you know what you did not want to know.

No longer the pathless destiny,
comes near you, you go towards the
bushes to collect the ash, the burnt out
remains of a theme, a design, a horizon.

In memory of books, which are not read
by anyone now. Pages lay wounded. Black
stones trying to hear the sounds of dawn.
The tremors were increasing in the swampland.

The wolves were in howling rage. A daring
gift of death, tormenting the spirit, human
flesh, you watch through the twilight,
through the terror of betrayal. Each tear drop
sacrifices the eternity.