Poezja

Goats and camels 
My caravan moves on sand dunes 
to cross the desert of hunger and want. 
 
Give a sharp prick 
draw the pure blood 
and don’t cry at the sight of violence 
in the sky 
I am not going to die. 
 
It is galloping dark 
there is absolute stillness in the air 
and I have fallen in love 
with the whistling breeze. 
 
Somebody is pawing, clawing at my back 
as if trying to maul 
the back of a denuded totem. 
Moon is watching helplessly. 
 
An owl on a branch 
looks straight, flaps 
flies away. 
 
Unpeeled clouds are now walking away. 
Dew will settle 
among the thirsty fields.