15 stycznia 2016
Dirty Homes
While going my way, searching an eternal flame
I confront an extraordinary trauma,
God does not live, but dies in me daily.
There was green pain in this condemned strangeness
as the young world moves on
dancing with joy.
It was not a coincidence
that intellectual anesthesia
was not able to bring good sleep.
So much passes by your city
existential traffic, soaring above arguments,
but a chilled, far away voice
defends the crumbling palace of syntax.
The masks are crying from the split walls
languishing in the hopeless garden.
Wherever you go, the windows are closed
and the smoke rings
rising from the chimneys of dirty homes.
2 lutego 2026
sam53
2 lutego 2026
sam53
1 lutego 2026
violetta
1 lutego 2026
Arsis
1 lutego 2026
wiesiek
1 lutego 2026
gabriel 123
1 lutego 2026
Amon
31 stycznia 2026
sam53
31 stycznia 2026
jesienna70
31 stycznia 2026
dobrosław77