Poezja

Like half-brother
moon was following me.
Tonight the dethroning commences
on the murderous hills
of faith.

You grab a snowcloud
to refuse what you would be.
The animal that lives
in you has become silvery haired.
There was a terror of being isolated.

Earth was dying in me.
A bloodied machete―
travels across the lands,
riding on the tears, screams
and disembodied peans.

Lifting a sacred book
the hand trembles involuntarily.
Is it the homicide of bright sun?
Et tu, O man?