Poezja

A wax house you were
gifted to live in sun.
No comments. As if the chess
game now starts. You do not know
how to move a checkmate
 
Always a looser. You do not
want to win this game― of
betting the cemetery― where your
ancestors were buried. No―
body has come to claim the remains.
 
Unkissed, the seeds will wait
to become antiqued, till a
historian finds a shovel. A
state of mind, you were very poor.
I will not cry for the fall's colors.