Poezja

I did not mean to hurt. 
 
Do not try to flute― 
drinking the lianas, 
wearing a fatigue. Then comes― 
the shoot. Like a scarecrow 
I sway― the slug― passes through me. 
 
You ask me to turn over― 
the death mask― 
giving a smile. There was no 
reprisal. Must bring under reins― 
the pounding heart― I cannot talk. 
 
Alone to mend my grief, the 
scaled loss of bliss. Do not want to 
use any metal. Poverty becomes 
my strength. Fears will stand with me. 
I am empty like a glass.