a poem for a lost poet

They call you Fighter,
but you never fight.
They call you Lighter,
but you bring no light.
They call you Singer,
though you rarely sing;
they call you Looser
they don't pay for drink.

They want your poems,
but there's only one,
they need your rhythm,
but don't see there's none.
They want your voices,
but they don't recall,
that everything in you
is so thin, so small.

They see your faces
that allways pretend
and reach for your spaces
that can not be mend.
They hear your yelling,
but nobody's there
to lift you from backstage
and show you somewhere.

And you will be sleeping
as long as fall wheeps,
cold wind will be sweeping
your wisdom from lips;
your breath will surrender,
your eyes will shut tight.
Before winter enters,
there's no place to hide.

Lidija Brezavšček - kočijaž