Querier

Talk to me,
where is your pain?
Talk to me,
say to me who walks in the darkness?
What is in your mind,
talk to me!

Why it hurts you, if on the bus
the people who lives on this side of twenty
stay sit in front of grandmothers?

Why it disturbs you, as they
deal with women everywhere,
- turning out on photos-papers –
with those who deserve better?

There are shabby times.
The locks freeze in.
Diogenes with his lamp
desperately
knocks in vain.