Poezja

After the death, mediocre paperweights rule 
on the pages of life. 
The leading light will wander in ruins for 
centuries. 
Hot winds spray the sparking dust on 
smooth posts, 
desert picks up the artist trapped in confusion 
I pray for the rains. 
 
Give me a chance. I want to replay the 
forgotten script. 
Can you spread a blanket on the wounds 
that were not mine? 
Nobody gives a call. They were overshooting 
the quicksand.