Poezja

I don’t fake the pain 
pain was me. 
A grafted rose opens up along the road rage. 
 
This was the city of my birth 
my oblivion, my reincarnation 
ejaculated from the dark. 
 
Here I found the golden dust 
nuggets of truth 
and the nostalgia of a broken moon. 
 
The marble white love 
and green bowl of arms 
a happy valley of stings. 
 
The sun backtracks on hills 
when I walk on sands 
leaving the deep scars. 
 
A small horizon was my window 
hunger of nightingales on branches. 
The tree was walking in, my house.