Poezja

Afraid to ask, the white 
fingers, to write a name on black paper. 
 
The milky way.*Janus will 
trap the light and open the doors. 
 
War of words was not 
going to stop. The alphabets do─ 
 
not pronounce well. The─ 
rape, the brutality, the mutilated death? 
 
The mother tongue weeps. 
The masks will write a history, in exile. 
 
Throwing the coins? The 
real face becomes a poem, lifting the wrists.