Ada Ionescu

I waited late into the night at the dispel of the contours white birds and black birds came to sit on my shoulders it smelled like dried grass and I witnessed the naive fall of the first snow what

I feel that I miss the pure essence of life when not being able to answer what really lies beyond sheer pain as if there is a meaning that would liberate us

the zigzag of the clouds is still looking for you even today among herbs illuminated by the sweetness of the autumn I watch only to see as my steps are repeated among the tree's halo tiptoe I

Deep starry night wherefrom you come and where your imortal eye takes you towards which eternity your silence floats in my darkest hour will you kiss the lips of my soul will you mirror my

they were born in the sign of Mercury, the wing-footed, cynical god. it was destiny – again. they sold even your name carved on the thin marble. They kept only the weeping angel, sweet

late is October. only the rhythmic chorus of nothing. “April” spelled backwards on dead bones, a plastic \"google search\" on today\'s border. behind the window everything deceitful. alive -

What for the broken limbs of an elegy? Useless, sweet water music for the drowned. No man\'s hand knew to stay. Suicidal pink moon over a new dawn. The Earth still revolving, children

tufted trees, burning, yellow savannah, ivory and diamonds. Africa. life splashing green. the most perfect cathedral windless blue sky; no edges I inhabit the eyes of a caged lioness. never

I cannot walk across the silent tongue of the cherry tree. A poetry store. A song of a song. I fear the lines I haven’t yet written. They always take the cruelest shape of a boomerang. I am

Flawless like the hasty wind it ran Medea’s whipped song... Almost invisible, irresolute, our fate line spread over the bloodstone hour of poppies. Sometimes we suddenly wake at night and

Unsearched hiding places. The tapering bleed of rain on the window or the wind rush blowing over the tin, rusty roof. Sinful limbs longing for anointments and the tormented hour of parting

Swift and narrow the light. No cigarettes. Just some dust-filled early summer crammed with insignificant, nameless stars. All of a sudden the music stopped and we distinctly heard someone

In the crowded bus where people are always trampling each others feet, the pregnant woman tenderly smiles to me. Oh, you, mother and your cruel rottening teeth! I cannot but weep this

These obsolete, lacerating words I’m carving my haggard life into with numb and shapeless fingers are actually miscarrying themselves… I cannot be blamed, as we do not blame nature for the

The yellow bony grass unwillingly slides into the full shade of winter. Don’t you see, my darling? Not even the shriveled sayings of the wise can shelter the swift, sharp rising of this echo

By the abandoned lighthouse some similar mechanic reflex is driving us: hunger tormented seagulls diving the blustery air, my disgusted hands hacking the fish fins, waves decomposing all those

Bent afternoon. I was six, almost seven watching for hours some off-track ant climbing my finger, when I first stepped into the comfortless sobbing of glass guillotined raindrops. I perfectly

Who could chew and swallow this yellowish December draught? Tasteless, brittle stone instead of a sun-filled grain of wheat on the vicious tongue… We could have a feast for the final