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whichever comes first
an arch or its point
you scratched on

a question mark
can not answer
the question itself

indeed so — even
in languages
which hasn't been created
play to me on strings of sunlight
when night braids itself with day
and let the crickets whisper to my ear
suave words of silence and longing.

engrave me the stars gemstones
onto the depths of a clear blue sky
and send me a warm wind caress,
soaked in the perfume of dried grass.

Offer me peace and happiness
in the silver of falling waters
and ask singing birds
to write me serenades.

and love me. Just like the oyster loves
both the fullness and the emptiness
of its own body, without
her ever knowing it.
Wrote this in two languages, as I often do. Below the Romanian version.

Apus

canta-mi pe strunele razelor de soare
cand noapte se impleteste cu lumina
si lasa-mi greierii sa-mi zica la ureche
suave soapte de liniste si dor.

si bate-mi pietrele stelelor
pe tarele albastrului adanc si clar
si trimite-mi calda mangaiere de vant,
imbibata in parfumul ierburilor uscate.

ofera-mi linistea si fericirea
in argintul apelor curgatoare
si pune pasari cantatoare
sa-mi scrie serenade.

si iubeste-ma. Asa *** scoica iubeste
atat plinul, cat si goliciunea
propriului trup, fara macar
ca ea sa o afle vreodata
raindrops
are just
tears
of fallen Gods.

for these Gods
will never learn
the art of falling,
so they just leave
the falling
to crystal  clear
water.
I decided that every written poem will have it's own translation in both English and Romanian. For how could I forget where I am and where I come from?  

Despre ploaie

ploaia
este numai
lacrima
zeilor cazuti.

intrucat zeii
sti-vor niciodata
arta caderii,
asa ca lasa
caderea
cristalului
apelor.
I am. And this awaken shudder
falling on the sands of unseen hourglasses
is precious in itself.

We are flowing, both you and I,
on these sand waves,
worn by dust, from world to world.

we are tasted by rain and feelings
with the appetite of a butterfly
recently freed from its chrysalis.

oh, we are! us, two strangers,
in perpetual metamorphosis,
forever oscillating between all and nothing.
Another philosophical cogitation, naïvely constructed in both my maternal and adopted language. Below the Romanian version.

Cugetari naive - Partea a treia: Scurgere

exist. Iar acest treaz fior purtat
de fire de nisip in clepsidre nevazute
Este pretios in sine.

Ne scurgem, si tu, si eu,
in valurile acestui nisip,
purtati de colb, din lume in lume.

Suntem gustati de ploi si sentimente
cu pofta fluturelui
proaspat iesit din crisalida.

oh, suntem! Noi, doi straini
in perpetua metamorfoza,
vesnic osciland intre tot si nimic.
let me dance
with your sweet perfume
with your embrace
as my salvation

let us sway
towards forgiveness and pain
and mend our hearts
with every step we make

let me hold you tight
with my arm around
your tensed back
and let me move it slowly

let the tango
or any other sensual rhythm
draw the white curtains
of an empty bedroom

let us sway together
towards the memory
of the vineyard
that got us drunk with each other

let me taste
every movement
until we remind ourselves
that we are one
Gods will rise and fall
And many suns may set,
but man will never get
loose from hatred's thrall.

so even if he shouts
his love and inner peace,
man will never cease
to have his hateful doubts...

arguments not needed
for this statement poem,
as hatred is yet flowing
so rhymes can be conceited.

Because man should hate,
as he has always done,
When fear and pride have won
this poetic prate.
Through this window
I see a life
That seems to be mine.

Episode by episode,
Its scenes flash
Towards oblivion.

Fast and unexpected,
This life falls in front of me
Like a rock through
An endless well.

No feelings or care
To be received,
But the constant action
Of ignoring loneliness.

No screams of help,
When expectations
Proceed hard work.

No glimpse of joy.
This life just rushes out
Of my beating chest,

With every ****** verse.
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