Poezja

Be precise, I would say.
The definition was changing― of the sand,
in our eyes.
 
Who was going to judge the
translation of sex? There was no man, no woman
in terms of misery.
 
The nights were deluged.
Days dry. My grains refuse to grow under―
the timeless sun.
 
The mother tongue is
laced with fluid endurance. I stand in
a storm, breathless.
 
The absent death
mocks at the living dead. How many times
you will go to the river?