Poezja

That was unscarred night. 
The full moon was rising. 
A contagium had spurred it to go high. 
 
A brazen assault bleeds 
the painter's eyes. He sees only 
red in the pubescent rage. 
 
She walks out of the stain, 
turning into ash, urchin's 
brightest moon. 
 
Standing on the crossroads 
who was burning clouds? 
Rains will never come again. 
 
Phylogeny flattens the guns. 
We were hiding behind the 
rituals watching the fall of light. 
 
I will make my own truce 
with death. I refuse to walk 
under the belly of smoke.