Way.

Lubomír Tomik

all
  we drowned in her eyes
all
  we starved in the desert sand
all
  we are travelers in the mist on the moonbeams

the sun went down
   and when it comes out
will burn anyone's feelings with a wave
  all
all

silver reprimands of time
    they bite pieces of meat out of everyone's backs
You are smiling

what else is left
way.

Not the target.

Way.