Poetry

Your own shelter of erected pretentions is beautiful 
but you don’t want to come out from the cage. 
Fear of falling from the cliff, cloud and sky 
on the claws and pincers is terrific 
which could maul, lacerate and dismember you, 
 
You want to hide behind the arguments. 
Somebody starts knocking at your head like a woodpecker 
Why don’t you stick to a legend like others? 
 
 
Downhill you have to come to primordial 
touch of soil and smell the odor of naked bodies 
toiling for seeds. Gnarled hands open the jammed 
windows. 
 
Will you know the secret of a bright lamp post 
where on some night, migratory birds 
were falling dead? Black fog is floating 
and you are still standing on the spot from where 
you started.