Poezja

How much you can carry, 
carving a deep gorge 
during last rites 
of a river? 
 
It was a skunky remain 
of the civilized terrain 
gone berserk. 
 
Oh pilgrim, don’t come 
again to wash your feet 
in the snow of 
painted storks. 
 
Hiding behind the tattoos 
my raw galaxy perspires 
climbing the graveyard 
of old songs.