we are the dust
of the far
stars,
that has been blown
by winds too far,
mixed with the water
and the soil,
baked in,
while we coil,
salted by the salts
of the deep seas,
which we do taste,
but none them sees,
and eyes just lit
by the lost stars,
by the left planets
looking like Mars,
and by the rings
that whirl around
calling us back,
to the place that can't be found,
and the three-colored hearts of hope
that with emotions cannot cope,
and with the senses so refined
that we cannot so easily bind,
and with the words that lie to brains...
we plan to fly away
in vain.
ivan Petryshyn