Poezja

I was extremely
hurt. Your taped lips won't kiss.
I will die hundred moons.

Can you give me
freedom from the pink rocks
of salt and snow.

I think, I should not
drop your name at the edge
of my trembling poems.

I walk in sleep
to listen to your surrender
before the bald eagle.

You were always in
hurry to shut the book
of life without reading it.