Poezja

What would you like
to wear, when oracle's
prophecy comes true.

Temple of pure love
was coming up, but there
was no deity.

You wouldn't think,
what I was thinking often.
Last night I slapped myself.

The black moon
rattles, after its message
goes into flames.

Can you talk
in piecemeals, surrounded
by smokescreen of words?

A baby nightingale
sings awkwardly. There
were clouds, no rains.