Poezja

Eyes half-shut, you are seeing, 
unseeing to house the failing light. 
 
When the tornado writhes down, will 
you come to clean the rubble? 
 
And splash the bird, the sky in purple? 
 
I am afraid of myself 
to explore the craft of non-living. 
 
When the silence descends, I will 
know myself, like the bone of Buddha. 
 
The words will not give 
any relief, whipped into terror.