Poezja

The sound of animosity 
wakes you up. 
There was a shadow war. 
 
The ethnic otherness, 
when you were ditching 
the sermons, the adjectives. 
 
Will you accept the 
atrocity of nouns who keep 
on inviting the fat spiders? 
 
The vision has failed. 
I don’t find any cue 
to the nests of sparrows. 
 
Ah, the booming guns. 
But I was talking 
to Sisyphus.