| Tuesday, 01 June 2021 | Print
Katica Zmijarevic
31st March and 19th June 2021
Thank you, father, for every step of the day for a fulfilling life
Life where there are blood footprints left
The fear of the birth of a young morning
Not very beautiful memory that life in which I thorned,
I fenced the road
Which I was not looking forward to
I was anxious, father, words swallowed so that your empathy
does not choke me
All wounds are here, in the soul a trace on the shore of my sighs
I didn’t cry; I was consistent with my behavior
Father, you haven’t seen how diverse the world is
You are only in your imagination, at your will,
on the headboard of pride
Of my decay where the world collapses where the ground lands,
under its feet
I grew up father, no more rain in my forests,
no winds are blowing counter because you couldn’t establish,
the direction of movement
With a firm hand, tie a knot into childhood forgetting
Thank you, father, ready I forgive you for your journey
was without a goal, without support,
without accomplishment pigeon who sleeps peacefully inside me.
In all languages, I looked at you, with my lips patterns of rules
in the garden, and sang them
Your eyes were full of anger and your spine was making a flip,
along with the symphony of wind branches
It’s just the music of my waits
That’s the fate that suffocates the passenger
And you don’t travel baby
you hide in the heart clause, you bombard me in all languages
I’m tearing everything left of you
I don’t give you the pleasure of being happy until the end of the world,
the sadness of the face of passersby
That sadness has finally seen it and you are
stayed in the laundry
on the terrace of wet thoughts
I drank coffee
Your view, I just pointed yours in the direction of no return
That’s how the ego feeds, with mistakes breaks the heart
and soul balsamates, for some other time
Printed with my sighs, my eyes that no longer follow time,
don’t make crowds and don’t take away other people’s happiness
for a hand of blackmail in my chest
The fog and grey mornings are still sleeping at the burial of the singer’s birds,
the torment of the dawn bleached
Posted 6:14 pm | Tuesday, 01 June 2021
globalpoetandpoetry.com | faroque
