Poezja

Sloping down in gold pursuit 
of a bruised city, 
sons of nameless fathers 
were changing the generic mandate. 
 
I am becoming fluvial 
going on a muted odyssey 
to find unmarked graves. 
 
Slaughtering 
your own lines, in praise of end- 
which came very soon; 
before the windows altered the moon. 
 
Genes spilled on the road 
recalling the wounded 
son whose lexicon took him 
to war with the meanings.