Pavol Janik

1956 / Bratislava

Chatter above the Grave

Clumsy are hitting lamps
like night moths.
Matured drunks are falling down.
In the amusement park, wierd generals
in a little green skirts are making grimaces.
In the middle of a metropolis, the forest burns.

In the shell of whispering lips
you swim in a part of the story.

My heart is beating the rest.

Pixiades, Smiljana
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