Poezja

News runs faster
than the sun. It is
dark already.

You have started arresting
the shadows. I was still
talking to a rose.

Let's go somewhere. Where
no war cries are heard
for a day.

How many, will you―
count the dead? Each mortal
wants to go home.

The postcards, don't
arrive from the front
anymore.

Will you take my message
by the severed head.