Poezja

Drunk with pride 
the streets are bursting 
in self-indulgence. 
Who was calling the shots? 
 
Do you know the words 
between intermissions, carry a secret- 
till the brazen scoop 
finds the hidden meaning. 
 
It was grave 
very grave truice, unmaking love 
between the estranged lovers- 
when clouds were seducing the moon. 
 
You don't belong to this 
crowd of renegades. Ants 
will take away the 
divorced dreams. 
 
•
 
Fissile belly 
has started showing signs 
of reckoning. A gloom has settled, 
gyrating in a sunken garden 
for the hung corpses. 
 
Never cruel were the times before 
when blind needles were unstitching 
the lips of frozen faces. I refuse 
to start a prayer 
till the grass covers a silent tomb. 
 
Last night it had rained 
on the private flesh. It was 
full of semen. You do not 
belong to this world 
of pregnant pause.