Poezja

I woke up clutching the dreams 
in deluge of tears. 
Night had a brackish taste, 
the other side of moon was dark. 
 
One by one the stars were dying 
Ideas were no longer candles in gale. 
The final thought of liberty demanded 
a tribute to partners in revolt. 
 
I wanted a sunlit corner 
in the blighted sky of hopes. 
Instead of scorched impulse of a mob 
injured truth, walking alone. 
 
Give me a bitter fruit of certainty. 
I don’t want to loose myself in fogs. 
The truth must meet the lie- 
alone, in woods of craft.