Poezja

When the rage 
will not find an exit. 
Would you come to 
share my grief? 
 
* 
 
We left our bones, 
our souls behind; 
to remind the word; 
it was a booby-trap. 
 
* 
 
There was a gun debate 
all the times. To kill 
or not to kill the 
fantasies in infancy.