Poezja

And now the pain wants me to speak, 
the words, but I wanted to listen 
like winds and keep back the thoughts. 
 
I refused to move from the scene. 
God was bleeding 
and his dolls were strewn around 
on marble floor 
broken, dismembered. 
 
No tree was safe now. 
The sky had cracked, 
off the light. I cannot reach. 
 
The dark thing shoves in, 
from a precipice, I am falling, 
falling! 
The pomegranate blossoms? 
Where are they? 
 
I am not afraid of a terrorist. 
I fear more of the shape 
of the humanoid eyes 
they are red, very red!