Poezja

You cast doubt, 
on the definition. 
Gods play with words, 
like winged fruits, 
Man becomes the spawn of destiny. 
 
Sparrows were flying 
out. I will watch― 
the window closed. A slant of 
light withers away. 
I am writing my poems in dark. 
 
The vintage rings under 
the eyes, will retrieve 
the lost meaning of 
truth, from the ruins of 
time. I will again start my pilgrimage.