Poezja

Coming out of the cemetry, 
Faith, does not tell you the truth. 
Becomes chaste innocence, 
Of imbeciles. 
 
How shabbily life treats you sometimes? 
Tossing you on garbage, squeezing 
your brain, smashing your marrow 
and turning you into pulp. 
 
We are all eyes, but no vision. 
Ownership of a spinning pain, 
does not entitle you for a liberation 
and a gift of guardian pendant does not protect you. 
 
 
Brutal hanging to sever off the neck 
was not crucial. 
I wanted to know 
who was afraid of whom?