Poezja

I met a talking moon 
on the road of death. 
What easily comes, goes easily with winds. 
I was counting the ribs of 
my dying child. He went into the 
woods to fight the unknown wars 
of hunger. 
 
Bunker: it went into flames 
sailing into brilliance of space. 
I am going to inherit the black grains 
of molten day. How I will confront 
the night tainted with bonfires 
of sunken eyes? 
 
God particles in tiny fists spreading 
the spun cotton, intitating a 
revolution of thoughts. A bumpy 
argument. The icon denies the guilt 
of mass killing. I want 
to remain unsung.