Poezja

The bifurcation―
was complete.
A fire baby―
and a weird ritual.
 
Criticality was redundant,
once I knew your gender.
 
Reeking of timelessness
in zero hour.
You fly the balloons―
from the ruins.
 
I scraifice a tree
for you, with
a shrill cry―
falling mid-flight.
 
White moon had
become very harsh.
I will bring honey
for night.