Who can pasture
The flock of my words,
Those trend setters, some will say,
Who kill the grass
To smell the hay…
There’s no place for you,
O, shepherds of my words,
Trough this squeaky forest of wooden swords…
This green pasture of bar coded grass blades
Is not for you, nor are those virtual shades.
You show some allergies
To that optimized blue of the sky
Not to low, not too high…
Leave those stereo nightingales
And this computerized dark,
I want my words together
In the poem of this ark…
Don’t rest by those
Y2K compliant still waters,
Allow some death
In your breath!
This really matters…
Slavomir Almajan's Blog 