Ancient Address

Black emptiness.
Death opens like a flower,
somebody is walking in.

You think of a soft punishment
for becoming faithless.
It was becoming a way of life.

Unlimited agony of wait
something to happen.
Nothing is heard in the field.

No shots. No kill.
Your day was over.
Night descends like a puzzle.

Grey cornea on the white lens:
clouds are playing a game,
mist has a smoky smell.

A city sleeps at last.
A poem I will not read.
It was my ancient address.