If I call
who of the angels
would hear me.
Whether one of them suddenly
would open up his heart.

The Big Shore
K. White



Like the grass called by the edge
of the scythe,
with a face, fixed into the black soil,
with lungs full of mud
and wind…
When I do not have cry.
Who of the angels
would hear me.
When I am an echo in the mountain
and my strength is a reflection
of some evening snow.
Whether one of them suddenly
would reveal his heart.
For that one who abandoned
his one
for a spring
in the desert.
He gave away his eyes to
the jackals,
and his fingers to the vultures.
And that one who has nothing for
giving away…

He gives away the Heaven.