Poezja

It is now. 
The call of unknown. 
A doting mother─ 
writes a child. 
 
I am, collecting─ 
the words. To speak for the 
death, which was hestitant 
to come, 
against the will of grass. 
 
The grassroots diplomacy, 
catches the wind. 
Abandons the footpath, 
goes to the marbled floor. 
 
What do I do─ 
at dusk? Become wordless 
like a deep sea─ 
waiting for the moon 
to bring the tides?