Poetry

I become again a fakir, 
but not on alms. 
 
A giver wants nothing 
after a knife thrust. 
 
Take away as many as 
you can, my thoughts, my limbs. 
 
There is no language 
of charity, in the black hole. 
 
You are the one, who 
does not need any ladder. 
 
Sitting on the beach, watching 
the waves collapsing. 
 
One day you will move 
away from the walkway.