Poezja

The dusk panics.
Molten ash stings, bearing
you down. Your enemy had penetrated
very deep.

Your pride shrinks.
Infinite pains from moonlit streets
climb up the palm trees
to count the dead.

You can not arbitrate in disputes
of wind and flags.

The night rolls down on the
battered past. Your face becomes
a broken clock.

Color-blind, you will never―
know the green recital
of the spokesman.