Poezja

The dancing paper,
humilates the pen.
A stunning defeat for morality.
 
In splendid withdrawl,
the eyelids bear the violence
of soil.
 
A broken pride
will get back at you.
Step aside. Let the soul read the dewdrop.
 
The moon meets the
earthen lamp, to understand
the hymns of rag-pickers.
 
The religion drinks
the aroma of holy vice. Was
there any truth of a beast?