Leaving

~

We plant our winter garden no matter what's the season

speaking about investments I give it my attention

while full to mouth with cold but empty of a reason

what for serves me the long beard during young years of tension

I pant for breath of thrushes, from little nests where they grow

I steal the softest darkness - right from under their small beaks.

Close to the disappearance if we take "Canto ergo..."

some parts of me don't give up even now when we're so weak.

Haven't said yet "Go. Leave me. On your own. Away. Southwards."

Although your wings get darker each moment just as swallow's

and wrinkles - wires of street lamps cut deeply into forhead.

Yet we've got lump of tallow which reigns over the whole worlds

we have in common. Your hands, old crows. And in mine - knife, though.

I divide and I give. To crows. A hawk. At sunset.

~