Poezja

A poem, like death-was 
unpredictable. You wait for it, 
it does not come. 
 
Then you drag a corpse 
on stones to find its home 
which never materializes. 
 
You give me a hurt. I 
become mute. Very shy 
to accept the verbatim. 
 
How different we are 
in alikeness. I touch you in twilight 
of life to become one. 
 
And from daily life 
I gather the pain, to print 
the version of tomorrow.