Poezja

What you would not give,
age opens
and eats you.
 
Finally, the fly ash
was liberated. It carries the
memories of burns, in furnace
that was life.
 
No android will fight
the proxy war of flesh. The cinnamon―
body will write the elegy
on sandstone.
 
The bronzed face, now
reflects the pain of earth.
 
Let the hymns stitch the life
without needles.