Poezja

I became uniquely quiescent 
like a depthless indulgence, 
in shadows of conception. 
The waves after waves, 
of a restless continuity, 
swept the floors of mind. 
Anonymity of self started expanding. 
 
Sun burns mercilessly, 
on prayers of parched lips. 
The breadwinner beats the chest 
and the dirt of long legs 
falls on the souvenirs. 
With traditional pouring, we wash the sins. 
It was too late for mourning. 
 
Tears to tears, eyes 
lie in wait for a miracle 
which will not happen. 
A longing always remains, 
a dying whisper of a storm. 
The desert will return with 
vengeance and clouds will never come.