1 may 2021
Come Again
Intercepting the random
poems, pick not
the holy water, in your palm.
I cannot lift the words.
Dark bellies, in moon's
autumn, will play with flutes.
You will swoon on the
sight of blood at the hands.
It was not the first time, a
lamb in the midair―
falls on the golden spear of
new theme, to bluff the naiveness.
Somebody takes a turn, to
find the bell, which will not send
any sound, on the death of
the poppies.
19 march 2024
The Pain Was Not YouSatish Verma
18 march 2024
1802wiesiek
18 march 2024
Ruda na platynowoabsynt
18 march 2024
Art In DyingSatish Verma
17 march 2024
W gotowościJaga
17 march 2024
takie tam ćwiczenieabsynt
17 march 2024
I Will SurviveSatish Verma
16 march 2024
1603wiesiek
16 march 2024
tu i teraz, zanurzając sięTomek i Agatka
16 march 2024
Drzewo recykling 2020Marianna Małgosia Bakanowicz