Poezja

They were decapitated 
in winter. 
To send forth again, fresh, 
the green twigs of summer. 
Trees of roadside. 
 
My friends, I used to talk 
to them in my morning walk. 
 
Once I sat under 
a wishing tree for a divine feel. 
There were lots of colored threads 
tied round the massive trunk. 
I wanted to arrive in the neighbourhood 
of absurd escapes of a 
fake religion. 
 
My footfalls on stairs were becoming 
louder, lugging the wasted life. 
It was time now. 
To understand the deep shadows 
of unanswered questions.