Poezja

With some red kisses
the wildness sun flowers
while the winter flees
 
        *
 
At night I show you
small pieces of buckshot that gleam;
shot into the night
 
        *
 
The wilderness calls
next to the big concrete jungle
where some lights glitter
 
 
        *
 
At a small nozzle nest
a red weaver-bird parade;
the large sickle-bush flames.
 
        *
 
The black tar road steams
whizzing like a great morass
while a green frog croaks.