ALICJA KUBERSKA

ALICJA

KUBERSKA

WOMEN OF THE WORLD

8th of March is International Woman's Day.
Internet portals are pretty and nice,

full of flowers, compliments and red hearts.
It's for free, just copy -  paste

A married woman was stoned in the mountain village.
She fell in love with another man.
She forgot  that she had an owner.
Her husband threw the first stone.
The world is silent.

A young girl was hanged in the big city.
She deserved to die, her eyes were beautiful. 
A crowd of men surrounded and raped her.

She asked for it.

The world is silent.

A child did not survive her wedding night.
The girl died, it happens.
All was in accordance with the law.
The old man paid well for a virgin.
The world is silent.

The schoolgirls were kidnapped and sold.
The slaves have their price.
The sexual toys have become cheaper lately,
the law of demand and supply works.
The world is silent.

In the villages of bachelors there are no women.
Dowry is expensive, abortion is cheap.

All female embryos were removed.
Each family wants a son.
The world is silent.

He gave her a rose in the morning
and a bruise under the eye in the evening.
It was her fault, she deserved to be punished
- the soup was too salty.

WITHOUT DIALOGUE

enamored with the hue of my eyes

you can’t reach my mind’s depth

deaf to quiet protests

you put words in my mouth

bogged down in the trap of guesses

we are lost in the dissonance of feelings

dreams out of tune sound false

our desires pass by indifferently

the seeming closeness separates us

entangled in meaningless sentences

we become increasingly distant

love dies with no right to appeal

SMALL TEMPTATIONS

The lures  appear out of nowhere and weigh next to nothing.
Light and airy - they sneak quietly through life,
They are translucent, barely visible and noticeably weak.

They do not have a specific gravity of serious sins.
Quickly, in ad- hoc mode, they  justify the offenses.
They do not leave  the marks of their stay in memory

and conscience.

They abandon responsibilities, forget the dates on the calendar
They sit comfortably in a chair

and fly to the blue realm of dreams,
where  the aromas of coffee are entangled in the whiff  of the cheesecake or apple pie.

No regard for calories ,

they add cream and delicacies to the ice- cream,
They melt in the mouth the sweetness of stuffed chocolates,
In the evening they serve a glass of champagne with strawberries.

On the sunny and warm days they invite one to walk to the park
to buy from a florist  the bouquets of violets

with their last few pennies.
The blameworthy and reckless, they do not worry about finances.

Small enticements and small fibs know each other  vey well.
They together discount the extraordinary beautiful handbags, dresses and shoes.
Sometimes they occasionally purchase  the colorful

scarves and  the beads.

Innocent sins are full of irresistible charm and grace,
And as water droplets falling on stone systematically,
They crush the monolith of serious standards and steadfast rules.

LOST DATA

I'm standing on an empty street accompanied by a cold wind,

which throws about pieces of paper and foil airily.

Rain drops whip my face and hands.

Darkness woke up windows of local houses,

their yellow eyes look at me with hostility.

I'm not going home, all addresses are unfamiliar.

Thoughts like a frightened flock of crows  fly around my head.

I don't remember anything – fear chokes me, suffocates me.

I don't belong to anybody, loneliness drags me into oblivion.

I don't know my name and where I come from,

where I will find a safe shelter.

My handbag, the guardian of privacy, shut its mouth.

I have no documents.

I have no money.

Keys to an unknown door glitter.

A touch of an angel woke me up.

Regained consciousness shouts out my name.

I repel a bad dream from under my eyelids.

TREE AND I

with my body, I am near to the roots

with my thoughts, I reach the longest branches

I soar towards the sun

I caress the green canopy

the tree records years in its rings

warm-cold, dry-wet

and I record emotions on a piece of paper

sadness-joy, love-loneliness

we are dear to each other

often, I embrace its trunk

maybe it will remember the touch of my hands

rustle with memories.

ALICJA KUBERSKA

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED