Poezja

Crossing the burning barriers, 
you take a fatal jump. 
Brazenly, but giving little away. 
 
Long shadows of ethnic clouds 
were eroding the sun. Feeling the 
wet lips you rub you sweaty 
palms in vain. 
 
Haunted, you would like to 
kill the ghosts. You pull a silken 
cord. A silver urn upturns the 
ashes of your past. 
 
Each truth walks without legs. 
You are still incomplete. The 
self-portrait will never hang 
on the wall.