Călin Sămărghițan

On her open book a smooth rock peacefully rests at the poem 63 of Skácel. How many pairs of amber eyes watch her from the grass! One day seven buds will explode but now they are silent. The

Once I killed a woman. It was in Madrid and I was in love with her. You know, her face was made of stone her hair was made of stone her heart was made of stone, so I couldn\'t steal her

To your long fingers none of the seasons will long any more. There will be an empty page and the only, the eyes will cut again and again the same shape of darkness. Do you feel how cold is

Circles we all ride in circles, pieces of time gathered by the gravity of our mind moistened by the grass. Yesterday stepped as a reptile, tomorrow passes into oblivion slowly like a cricket

The mornings of old times are dead, the dream gets on the tram along with the evening and it\'s over. A sadness on stilts walks through the town... I hear it arriving at the corner grinning

She waters collector has come in town. She transforms waters into silver butterflies. She asks about those who are thirsty, for them to sniff and to dig wells for her waters. In the curbs of

The waters collector has come in town. His amphorae keep the image of the dust that was sometime up in the humans. The waters collector strings them like that on the edge of the road for you

That coffee house should be famous. You emerge from that necessary purifying confinement, you walk through your fancy fields and suddenly you see a delicate gloved arm drawing signs in the air.

A tram passed in front of me, a forsaken park on the left hand, a street emerged from the corner ending on her smile.

The winged fishermen become fish and catch in their nets people of water.

One day I\'ll have to choose. The people will go by foot to the same insipid job, the same hurdy-g\'y on the corner, a bored cook will prepare the same menu. The man with glasses will invite