Investigation

I'm counting your wrinkles like folds on a curtain,
each wrinkle's a dolour.
On your heart - thousand fingerprints,
left by those
who were to be saved.
Preacher of love, forgiving all sins, making losers believe,
you take each life by its end, like a thread,
and wear it as clothes every time.
And they throw you away, in the snow, where you lie,
and your eyes reflect
serenity.

I'm counting your wrinkles like folds on a curtain
and wonder how young
is your heart,
though it's been an exhibit for ages
to a distant
world.

(2006)