Poetry

I become again a fakir,
but not on alms.
 
A giver wants nothing
after a knife thrust.
 
Take away as many as
you can, my thoughts, my limbs.
 
There is no language
of charity, in the black hole.
 
You are the one, who
does not need any ladder.
 
Sitting on the beach, watching
the waves collapsing.
 
One day you will move
away from the walkway.