Poezja

The flame will not die.
I pursue the path of smoke
the virtue of suffering
gives the pure light.
The book knows my inside truth
and tells no one. I weep for the swallows,
I could not feed.
I lay one white
stone for each death.

You will scatter my ashes,
in the abandoned land
where silence walks
and words lie like microcosm
of contemporary hunger.
Life was a cupful of tears.
The voices always spilled challenging
the fidelity of flowing water.

The living legend turns in grave,
I pray for peace
I promised myself to stand erect
when the quake comes.
I will save the flora
and the grass of dying earth.
I ask for one more life
to clear the debt & bleach my guilt.