night’s name steers me
to the silent reverie of your hands
for a fleeting moment
no dawn chases us, no time defines us
no shadow dulls our glow
without notice the horizon itself is drifting
my hands' yearning is as calm
as a wing over moonlit seas

a Proustian quest for original wonder gets illuminated among pine, olive, palm trees
the eye needs delicacy and moderation to grasp the breeze of thoughts
is it the soul or an architect of joy who blends the harmonies in a pointilist smile on my face
an atmospheric fluidity in my hands between land, sea and light

in the blindness of night darkness is a form of light falling into itself
there's so much to be seen but the eye has blue limits
I watch how I am pushed inside
by the centrifugal force of breathing
these women in me, known and unknown
they insist, whisper, shout, smile, dance, cry, they carres the echoes of shadows they want to tell me
what love is in the dreamed language of the blind
I say to them: no, you don't know
what love is
Yet

At some point soon I will lose my eyesight
so I am getting ready
Every day
I try to remember your smile
which will soon be my only light

by Ionut Calota, translated by Lidia Vianu

this feeling that keeps me alive, cauterized by light. the silence of silence is yet possible in the sonority of clouds and the delight of roots. the discreet spaces of time finding a voice, some harmonic highlights. it's not only the moon that gives meaning to void, fullness empties itself into the screaming of colour. almost here, almost there everything scatters, conjoines, rejoices  regurgitated by dreams. seeing with your heart an homage to the interconnectedness of life. I pass through you, you pass through me for a moment as short as a breath. our hands leave behind a trace of something, a roaring heart attuned to herself

you escalate my depth
a pain without pain, an effortless mirror,
this flame trapped in the depth of flesh
my body is a quiet urn for
the ash of the days without an inexplicable
you

This light that follows me
I love its caress
Never let me live in darkness
Bathe me until I am whole

there in the land of the wind
the grass would like to be as tall as you
the salt of the earth would be ringing,
resonant with the laughter of tears
perhaps everything we are
has to conceive a symbolic death
to deliver ourselves

in the embryo of words there is
such a gentleness, a true prophecy:
language would begin to forget itself
we meet in this language without words
like two beings from the end of the world