5 may 2021
Thinking Off
The clouds hang on the strings.
I cannot dry my eyes.
Picking up the pine cones, on grass―
one by one, as the years went by.
How did I lose my home again?
Were there not footprints in snow?
The caladiums, you planted in
summer, had the crimsoned spots.
Like the kirmizi sun
dipping in lake one night.
31 march 2026
wiesiek
30 march 2026
wiesiek
30 march 2026
absynt
29 march 2026
wiesiek
29 march 2026
absynt
29 march 2026
absynt
28 march 2026
absynt
27 march 2026
wiesiek
25 march 2026
wiesiek
24 march 2026
marka