Every minute
Every day
Every life
I’m thinking about words
Which I never have time to tell you.
Nothing important.
Just the words.
Every night
I’m not telling you
Why the grass has a colour of  sad
Why the snow has a colour of angels’ wings.
Ewery morning
I put that words into the basket
Of socks and broken hopes.
Every day I ansver you
That I am ok
(As people without air).
I am afraid to tell you something more –
About broken bodies and hearts on the road
About books which are dying without readers
About my life full of you without you.
Every life I left that words for poets.