Poezja

Those migratory storks, 
will not come 
this year. 
The lake was burning. 
 
The secret kill 
of the wringer 
was metastasizing. 
Make the tether- 
 
small for the macabre 
end. I am not yet 
frozen. The stalker 
 
will not leave the 
flame. Outside a tribute 
was ready for 
an uprooted tree. 
 
My shadow moves ahead 
to catch a cage bird, 
in the parrot green sky.