Poezja

Would you become
my plaque one day?
Unknowingly, unspoken?

Blue poppies will come
without footfalls and kiss
the dust of memory lane.

We will cry together,
unopening the lesions,
between the flesh and bones.

The essence drips in―
the flask, drop by drop.
Reading the urns of pain,
to be buried alive.

The search of other
moons will not start till
the spell of unknown
deity breaks.

The migration ends.
Blackbirds were coming home.