Poezja

From within, a
fawned virtue follows
the breath, I spell
your name.

The cymosed
surrender at the feet
of a tall god was disgrace.
I will know the incoming stranger.

Spotless in dark,
your words breed. There
was something mysterious
displaying the grains in daylight.

I will count the golden
rings, in your pink eyes
becoming a ghost.

A wrong step in a
right moment, you become
a prisoner of a cell, with
no key.

From the ending
a new race begins.