Poezja

Into the dark enters the blue; 
a homeless song punctures the cloud: 
gentle grass was never so green. 
 
The colors start fading 
there was no other movement. Sun strides in. 
No going, no coming of pain. No propitiatory 
prayer of mine or yours. 
I seek the wisdom of a tree. 
 
Like hawthorn collecting the wish rags 
fluttering in desert flora. 
A husband, a father, a patriarch 
in heart of conception, malice for none. 
 
Give we some peace of Ash, 
rebirth of thinking, 
return to being, 
burnt out self.