Scratch

My poems are born in sketch books

because sketches is what they are –

poor little scratches, insignificant traces

of cafés, coffee, black tea and lard.

My slightly bloody words

are little sentimental wounds
of a useless and fertile womb

which will carry no more

and because of that it sometimes whines

                                 sometimes even sobs

rebelling against its desolate destiny.

Singular and occasional drops of water

in a country drowning in sunlight

all the longing

blood craving for iron

what was never meant to be.