From my clear eyes
you squeezed the juice
and my pure soul
you perfunctorily used
With your warm lips
on my cold arms
I infected you
from unrecovered cut
Winter was cold
but not my tears
I did infect again
with my courageous fears
I thought that you will not
hurt me and my ‚fake’ art
though you entered the war
and lost from very start
[or not]
My injured body’s on the white oak
Your injured body’s on the snowy rock