Poezja

For the fusion of minds
let the long vigil of night begin
for a cultural shock.

Prayer wheels were whirring
furtively.
The Buddha was going to weep.

Imperial march of hundred
thousand boots in fever
wakens the darkness under the milk.

Famished ghost of a town
can foresee the rumbling of
a dark moon behind the trees.

Bullet for bullet
in inner empire.
Gold lips cry at every reason.

Burnt-out shrine will tell a tale.
They were diluting silence of walls,
blood stained by the crash of towers.