Poezja

Not finding a path
to truth,
going beyond the gods. You
will not listen to my pleas―
still frozen in unthruths.

Death opens the―
holy darkness. I am aware of
the bluffs and black voodoos,
insertion of pins.

Moon-bitten, chasing
the blood cherries, you reach
for the yogi cult in trance.
Every night becomes green.

The sacred knife, cuts
the knot, sort of a hinge.
A celebration starts
throwing stones
on each other.