Poezja

The snow:
Pounding the earth, trees
the man.
Centuries of hunger repeat the
raven's walk on icefield.

The drum beats again.
The cold war tapping
at your doors. Missiles made
ready to fly.

The rhyme comes back to
weave the funeral song.
Blood curdles, as you step up
the agony.

The stings, the venoms,
the blue veins. The murderers
were ready to-
receive the gifts.