Poezja

A ghost truth 
levels down, 
the traffic. You enter 
into catatonic stage. 
 
Rage and anguish 
will ask, 
for the price of blood 
flown down the river. 
 
Listening 
with the eyes. Leaffall, 
luteus, music of descent 
on grass. 
 
A dust storm 
settles on sill. I will 
look through the window, at 
a setting sun, unadored.