Poezja

In culture of counterfeits 
a snip of intelligent gene 
brings the pink tears 
for the brown eyes. 
 
A virgin goes for a spade 
in the naked sun. 
Let me think of polymorphism. 
Can there be an answer- 
 
for oblique questions? 
Can this tottering frame live? 
Life can still stalk the death 
and stand for the body in the sack? 
 
Fielding the enquiry about race - 
gap, you said the walls 
are crumbling. I read the message 
half-believing. 
 
As a whole, the glory lives. 
Is that true? 
 
 
•
 
 
The gentle rain falls on 
the emaciated Buddha. 
Stand out from the controversy. 
A foam-born goddess will 
counterpoise the questions. 
 
 
The grievers are sitting 
in a circle for the dying moon. 
The charred breast of earth 
sends the flames. 
 
Who has closed the window 
of morning glory? My blackened 
words are traveling fast 
to reach the stars. I am 
held in a shadow.