I hear you grinding blisters with your tongue and drinking tears from your hands.
My voice fell silent in my ears, breathing the bottom of the river.
Too much water is draining, I have become a prisoner of my words.
Like a crow searching for distance, I protect my opponent at midnight.
Look into the well, he discovers the faces of the movement being.
Now they are talking about the defeated shadow, but the poets do not see it.
They didn’t hear passionate words as I praised the experience.
Let Paris cry, the dancers of Berlin are looking forward to it.
The world is becoming a life of hostility, so everything is smart.
Many of the wounds of the rumor rotted when I was a prisoner of the virus.
The European bourgeoisie, they say, is the only pleasure.
Millions of dumps of literary rulers, this is our path.
Like a wise beggar repaying Europe’s debts.
Peace should be a house without a roof, my hands feel pain.
The time of the moon stopped yesterday, let us drink the sun of thought.
Passion and kiss, I say this, let it be a history of feeling.
Andrej Požar
