Poezja

Weeping asokas were talking.
Only THE Plato will tell
the truth about republic.

I was shaken like
dew drops on grass in whirlwind.
No end of unending.

Moon goes on rampage.
When will you meet me in charisma
of midnight September?

Mankind will not
change. The stones roll down
to remain afloat in river.

Take off your hand
from my shoulder. You have
to go for a long journey
without me.