Just before winter
they were cold.
In rags whose colors
cursed each other
slept poor bastards.

Later, after the days
had shortened
they asked for a piece of
bread from the pigeons.

Pigeons are misers,
thus aren’t hungry.
Fat and fed
they cannot fly away.

Pigeons are birds
In branches very high
and down there, at the bottom
through their feces
search poor bastards.

Objavljeno u Zborniku radova II festivala aktivističke poezije, Zagreb 2010

II Activist Poetry Festival Anthology, Zagreb 2010

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