Poetry

The summer moon with
poetry and musk.
I waited full evening
to become a coherent whole.

I wanted to quit, like
a Buddha, not to come back
in the baked mud house
where the sun would not break.

The earthen lamp with
a flickering flame, under the
holy basil, wants to die
before the moonrise.

Paralysed lower limbs
will make you sit like a god
on the altar, deaf and dumb.

You don't want to learn
about the red lips of the goddess.
Moon was bleeding heavily.

Sit in a lotus position.
Sky is going to fall.