Poezja

Needing a bit less, 
I wanted to discover myself. 
Raise the chimney. 
The house in on fire. 
 
The door sleeps in the room. 
Sun will find no corner 
to sit. Can you call a cloud 
to make the floor wet? 
 
The knuckles come alive, rap 
the window to stay calm. Someone 
had knocked out the space 
and coming in to meet the hunger. 
 
A shrine has asked the roads 
to be washed with tears of pilgrims 
who had come from the faraway 
hymns of darkness to script the light. 
 
I am carrying the seeds of my 
native place to find the roots.