Between us, hanging stable Is the bridge of the kilometers of the Unspoken words, due to feverish pride. Between us, we weeks of failures, Only the pictures made sometimes Moisten the eyelashes with memories. Between us, grimaces of sorrows, And the blame doesn’t recognize its master Hitting the chest through ricochets. Between us, it’s spreading
When God has time, He dictates to me All these… He’s been looking for Some Wings – A son, there, A mother. Actually, He gives birth to a mother For a rejected son. He transforms And the fiber smells of acacia. Yes, God He moved away from us And I hear that the new rent
I see someone Hurry To light the candle over The story of my life Unfinished. The cemetery is full of hasty conclusions, epitaphs placed in a hurry, Approximate faces Over definite events. There is also a priest, A mad one – some say – Who blesses the crushing. I’m the clay of the oaks that
Hope is like a beautiful woman that lures you embraces you with promises then gently breaks off hoping to get you to embrace her but she’s always on the move sleeker and more beautiful she attracts you more and more and you seem sure you can catch her feeling that she would like too she
My sunrise was an old sunset and your sunrise will be my sunset that went away. But do not forget although it is very difficult to know what will happen next that your sunset on the other east with the sun will bathe and this story will always be right. The sunset is always a
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Your shadow, mother, is small Barely a nephew finds room under And how you shadowed us like a lime Dad, me, all my dear ones! Your shadow, mother, is small and heavy And the sun of your eyes goes down And we run into a mad world, Children without time being near her. We do
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Who am I? A longing and a dream, An edge in a bracket Ancestors dying of longing For Earth and Paradise. Who am I? An immortality And a clay pot And dead and reborn, Tree of Life and Forest Of sins and pain Light and abysses Bottom of hell and paradises Splendor and falling. A
Everyone brought his stones some built pyramids in the middle one the table with a dark and sharp tip like a star on a uncertain throne others set the to the right of the table silver and rested their palms tired from digging unanswered questions and tiresome answers some left them in their pockets not
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Dragging her maybe following her, the guitar string ready to break on the instrument’s neck the color of sunset, when your steps avoid emerald alleys. The maker has chosen his form, the width of the trunk, the span, the sound box trembling of love at your first cry as an earthling, has fine tuned the
Like grandmother’s comfort in winter nights, the light burns under the carpet carrying the stories of angels. We see under the glass of water the beginning of the world. Children proclaim in rhythm of snow, white mountains hold in their palm the herd of the village. English Translation by Zorin Diaconescu
