The price of rain decreases
At the free market of poetries
Even if
The sky sends a look
Through each drop…
Even if
My leaves of paper got green
While you, poets,
Were fishing
Radioactive trout…
Look,
Even the incorruptible time loses
Some moments
From place to place. Just
Pick them up and give them a breath
Before they become stones
(anyone knows how unuseful
the moments of stone are).
In the rest
The poem is like a silence,
Like a place from where
Someone just left…
Slavomir Almajan's Blog 