Appearing as a thrush-ling to the crowd of beggars, begging for better life than ours
to the pantomime by an experienced artist, the onlookers were puzzled if he were literary
he was not but a trousers stitched to the lump we call shoulders, belly protruding and lost
under its own weight, nonetheless he performs for consolation of theater movement
She was watching him from under of her cape, confused and lost in the movement
which meant nothing more than an ideologue that empties to the room of dead corpses
it talked nonetheless to the dead people, why are you wasting your life for in the winter?
When there is heaven to make after the death of body, the soul takes over to a new dimension
He was busy with his somersaulting, a replica from the past while the crowd cheered in vain
Till a thrush-ling cooed from the palm groove in the desert of Arabia where hardly anyone talked
let alone sang in the fashion of a migratory bird which from Serbia due to climate change
found her way into the desert as a change in fortune, then there are hardly any ambush in Serbia too
Despite the stars glared on to the earth, a climate change had offended the light and the starlight too
While the arts movement strayed off like a communist regime on to the other chores of capital thought
He was adamant the show must go on while she was adamant to hear the show to end and
it was time to go home but the migratory bird strayed though found the desert an enchanted place.