Poezja

I do not write about something
or anything. You will
not knock at my door.

I will be pained, if
you sweep the floor, to
tout the unwritten song.

I sing wordlessly. Even
the echo will open
the waning wounds.

My body, I give to
hawks, to escape the
elegies in the death well.

Even the night
will bring the pillow
for the dying moon.