Poezja

Sitting at a funeral; 
in ashes, you search- 
the faces of dead. To 
shut down the apostrophes. 
 
How far was your home, 
you don’t want to 
go back? A black moon 
invites the tallest flare- 
 
of the sun. Bright 
death will ask no compensation. 
You can travel over half- 
memories of frozen pain. 
 
Hourglass to Kundo clocks, 
you were collecting all the 
souvenirs to stall the 
translations from coast to coast.