Poezja

A firefly in a jar
will not fly.
 
Presiding over the genocide
how can you count the dead
children of god, on the street,
by your forked tongue?
 
The roving eyes. Chameleons.
With folded hands, they
throw the snow on your
disheveled hair.
 
The morals are marketed
daily on the dais. I deny myself,
something which I can give
you. O hunger, don't go back.