Poezja

Black names―
were on list. Bring the
French chalk to wipe out
the white board.

The list was still breathing
though you had faked your death,
and the birds had left their nests
for new perches.

Does it hurt you, when
you go hungry? Even the grass
was green. The prince
was watching the apple fall.

Who will climb the
brown hills of moon, to
witness the earth drop in
withering trails?