Poezja

You hide behind the words.
It was my priviledge
to start the fire.

Looking at the bare moon
in black sky,
you open the blue veins―

to explore the anatomy of
pain. Sometimes you want
to suffer in the hands of impossible.

Life wants its share of death,
when you were playing autumn,
frightening the lantern.

A nameless breeze offers
the whiff of a musk deer,
that lost the tree for scent-marking.