Bulls in My Blood

It is time to consider the new beginning.
We,
the remains of the phalanges, legions, tribes,
cannot wait any longer.
Hoping is dangerous illness.
The white bones are our share of the roulette,
turnaround game of the History,
announcing flood from great distance.
Who are we waiting for, when no one will come?
Being here already
scattered in the dark space
of unknown tongues and colours,
it should be pointed out that we still exist.
We, the cursed living, lying trenched out of the town, like extinguishing fauna.