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cristina-monica-moldoveanuPoems
Prayer candle trays are heavy I hardly find my way among dead and alive holding a drop of new light crossing myself with my hand still warm the bell-ringer pulls down the rope people stand shoulder to shoulder I feel the earth’s silence candle flames sizzling in the sand straight or bending separated or united   an old cross raises in the churchyard still upright an apple tree almost touches the stone leaning completely towards sunrise I bow under the entrance vaults crossing myself again breathing much deeper ........................................................................ Matins Eyes opened behind their dark veils, convent novices step outside deep into the fresh snow, so soft and pure. Their fragile long shadows begin to take shape behind them dragged over the ivory field, trembling. Breaking his shroud of clouds a new sun emerges in front of them on the right side, as bells toll stronger. ............................................................................... the prophet crisscrossed fingers he crucified dead in a row on the left of daughters on the right of sons over the eye of the cascade or the mouth of the precipice the dead kept silent until sick and tired of all that but he spoke about the love from one human to another a contagious disease he intended to put into quarantine from the top of sweet wood crosses wild roses and peaches without kernel dropped down until God woke up for good it started to rain lightnings touched the flint stone and even he died of dream deprivation
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Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 9:05 AM UTC
Religious poetry
Prayer candle trays are heavy I hardly find my way among dead and alive holding a drop of new light crossing myself with my hand still warm the bell-ringer pulls down the rope people stand shoulder to shoulder I feel the earth’s silence candle flames sizzling in the sand straight or bending separated or united   an old cross raises in the churchyard still upright an apple tree almost touches the stone leaning completely towards sunrise I bow under the entrance vaults crossing myself again breathing much deeper ........................................................................ Matins Eyes opened behind their dark veils, convent novices step outside deep into the fresh snow, so soft and pure. Their fragile long shadows begin to take shape behind them dragged over the ivory field, trembling. Breaking his shroud of clouds a new sun emerges in front of them on the right side, as bells toll stronger. ............................................................................... the prophet crisscrossed fingers he crucified dead in a row on the left of daughters on the right of sons over the eye of the cascade or the mouth of the precipice the dead kept silent until sick and tired of all that but he spoke about the love from one human to another a contagious disease he intended to put into quarantine from the top of sweet wood crosses wild roses and peaches without kernel dropped down until God woke up for good it started to rain lightnings touched the flint stone and even he died of dream deprivation
the first poem describes a typical Orthodox church and mass (candles are lit for dead or alive, etc.) the last one refers to the fact that no prophet is wiser than God
cristina-monica-moldoveanu
Written by
cristina-monica-moldoveanu
52/F/Romanian
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 9:05 AM UTC
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