Poezja

A midnight darkness― 
threatens the purple moon, 
standing in awe. 
 
 
There were two poems― 
in your hands― which you 
wanted to read in my face. 
 
One for the asking― 
and one for the moral defeat. 
Do you have anything else to narrate? 
 
A thunderbird makes― 
a landing in my insomnia― 
to scatter the dreams. 
 
The insane world returns 
the gift of the pagoda tree. Buddha 
will not come back.