Poezja

It is.
It was not.
The volcano was collapsing.

What was happening,
and what wouldn't happen.
I didn't want you to be
lost among my poems.

The window weeps.
Moon won't come to sit
on the palm tree in the
sight of a lonely pen.

Death comes on tiptoes
for the flamingo,
stranding in meditation.
A pack of wolves was waiting.

Who will pay
for speaking the truth?