Poezja

A nascent cry 
demands the signature 
of space. 
I will start the self destruction- 
 
clawing back 
on the land of 
betrayals. 
The rule of sky was at stake. 
 
Trees were burning 
and the birds 
want to grasp 
the stark reality of notional violence. 
 
In dark hour 
I know not words 
to lift the eyelids 
the cloud, the flowers, the blood!