Bencze Attila - as a dry branch

When in the damp melodies
the chime sounds drily
and you suspect that you have a home:
- the gable of your pain clear snow.

As what the bald tree branch you buzz,
melted into humus pasts
you say it vainly now, believes this
do not hiss the green words.

Star gate a veil preserves it
in the menses of a moon your night
and you tried to grow tall only
insatiable, little dry branch.