Poetry

Have you seen the number of years that I carry in your pockets?
They are the branches of an transparent oak
the sugar's beaches on the London smoke
the explanation for life that runs behind the death

sad Malgorzata
punished for having smiled at the glass
where only you could fill up jugs of bitter honey
along with hundreds of trunks that do not fall for inventions
sad Malgorzata
I remember you only now
sinning to know ya