Poezja

A dialogue with fear,
to end the thought,
was walking alone on the edge of death.
All the mercy of life was with it.

Gone were the waves,
whispering, back to the sea of mundane paucities.
The sky and the pain were there.
Again a question of collective guilt was rising.

So much noise was coming
without any resemblance
with the damaged certainties.
An act of voiceless jealousy was starting for the ethnic slur.

It will not disappear
a conjugation between light and dark.
Can truth annex the belief
with a half hitch?