Poetry

Coming to an end the 
consecration. The land will 
not give you any god. 
 
Only the demons will come in your dreams. 
 
If it were window, the 
street will send the black 
noises in your house. 
 
I will not wait 
for snow-melting. 
The slum was going to be 
sliced off. 
 
Wet from the rainfall, 
the grain cannot be milled 
and you will not eat my sprouts. 
 
I cannot sail now. 
It must be very dark 
and the glossary 
very foul.