Craving of birds of the dusk skies,
Reverberates in form of sorrowful cries,
Their brothers have fallen to the ground,
Never to rise, they remain bound.
Under the strong touch of a cold, pale hand,
Which reaches for eons and miles, the spirits bend,
At every whim of a malicious sneer,
Doubts appear, then disappear.
The calm breathing conducts the wind,
Still air lingers where recently a gyre spinned,
A gyre of dust, ashes and ghosts,
A ruthless command on an errand posts.
Rustling of leaves, croak of a hungry scavenger,
A wordless whisper brought by the whistling messenger,
Wordless, yet piercing mind through the ears,
Of the weak one, one who fears.
A gaze so intent, so mighty it can be felt,
On the skin of one’s neck, on the back covered with pelt,
Streams of hate, what they hit they hurt,
No longer live those who got lured.
A viscous reminder in its fangs brings guilt,
The one who had betrayed shall be stung and filled,
The liquid enters and stains a vein,
Death is a relief, it brings pain!
by Martin Krč
Year 2, Issue 1