Poezja

In slap at your icarian path 
the call was not taken 
from inside me. 
 
Anxiety in a troupe of clouds 
was rising. A deep dissent 
within winds surfaces after sunset. 
 
On the footpath comes a noun 
in the land of abuses, 
taking a vow of silence. 
 
The moon becomes green 
in a blue sky to get 
the blessings of surging frost. 
 
Knew nothing about the 
future flooding of apples. 
Falling from the tree.