Poezja

Understanding the poverty
of the earth, the pain,
of the primal tribe,
invoking the god of sky.

In my victory, I was stabbed.
I will go and meet the sea.

You are there, O hunger
of home and peace, mute
as a stone, baked in
sun, waiting for the ripples.

I will burry the blackberries
in dreams, the lips will
seek the silence of a stroke,
when moon walks in unannounced.