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The Message

I agree to this landscape
which might not exist.

The father is holding a violin.
Children are licking at the sound.

A cold wind
brushes a garden of petals.

Then the wars . We lose sight of one another.
Huddled in full sentences, words are in hiding.

An empty room
parked in the twilight
of an old apartment house.

Please leave a message,
says Jaina.



Reworked from NIKT
© 2003, Ewa Lipska
From: Ja
Publisher: Wydawnictwo Literackie, Krakow, 2003




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