Poezja

Cruel times,
and the walls are rising.
The rivals.Medusae versus columns.
Snakes for hairs
opposed to stones.
The bell shaped body with stinging
tongues.
 
I will not speak.
This is the gift from the womb of
evil.The blues.
Wounded by you.
 
The color changes.Sunrise to sunset.
You stay in sunroom, in dumbness.
Chilling poverty.
 
You shake violently.
Give me the skin to cover my bones,
I am bleeding black.You know the tilted moon
still crying.