Poezja

Between the tears falls the non-vision.
I am scared
let go off my silence
and restore the infidel wall,
speaking to faithful bullet to aim nothing.
We are still not protected
in the domed confidence of million years.

Ahead of time the tryst
with goodness becomes
a window opening into
a garden of startling truths.
An immaculate response of speechless
creation gives back
a new twist to faith,
and Gods have gone into hiding.

In granite temple
the doors are missing.
Leaves fall from tall faith,
unstruck in the air, become fossils.