The poet

On the portrait his hands lay down
towards his pockets
like a giving beggar
wandering hopeless around a town

wandering tired of his own ways
of being a man so delicious
with gift of word so precious
writing those lines of counted days

sometimes it happened that he was sad
tired of being a man
solitary bird, half dead
sometimes it happened that in his land

flowers were dying of too much water

and every now and then,forgiving
moved on along his own shadow,
his roots cut off and holy pain
shivering of his naked heart...