Poezja

For the memory of palms,
the pretence lives on―
the blade of a saber.

You run on the sands
barefoot― to catch the waves
returning back to sea.

You had stopped
talking to me― wearing the
mystery― I loved.

On skin you print the
anthem. Somebody kills the lamb.
The pathos went quiet.

Becoming cold turkey,
absolutely white. The pilgrimage
over, you break the coconut.