Cristina-Monica Moldoveanu

Good evening, your highness. How is your sleep now in winter? When leafless walnut trees show their smooth gray bark, Effectively when all the trees seem mellow and ill As if something is missing

My Burzenland lady, a light I am, and a wound and a heart. I’d send you a letter to see How poison and joy both agree Inside my wine cup how to blend, My lady from far Burzenland. From

it might have been that once upon a time, between lives, I grew long fingers like icicles, as a piano player, I strolled along like the whisper of an old wind playfully stealing the flat

and then I gathered in a trunk the holy clothes and the holy foods and I left somewhere not too far away, because my road was written in black ink, after I delved in an eye for a piece of time,

J'étais assise à la table avec des tiroirs mités pour gribouiller le vert d'avril, en dessinant des spirales avec une courbe règle en plastique lorsque le soleil était là, en dessinant des

mon bonheur prends fin ici/ dans cette soirée de dimanche lorsque la croix au sommet du clocher se rafraîchit après cet éclatant rouge coucher de soleil il n'aura lieu aucun moment sans

les souvenirs qui coulent dans votre sang sont probablement bleus vous les essuyez avec votre manche comme si elles étaient des larmes sur vos joues vous avez envie de vous gratter parce que ça

http://i1149.photobucket.com/albums/o600/CristinaMonicaMoldoveanu/Haiku%20on%20Pictures/whisp_zps3bg6v9ir.jpg

folks something's happening here a woman yells that she's murdered/ it's me that woman and the same woman looks inside the old well there's rust upon the chains lifting the bucket everyone is

I believed it would be summer forever until forbidden trees from heaven shook off their fruit a season for those with the heart somewhere in their neck yet a too low heart for the offspring of a

I bid farewell to childhood with my soul and my face crumpling like Jacques Brel singing his music/ I wrote letters and poems without destination where the sun smiled from my old deflated plastic

That day I entered the corpse’s room. As it is customary, the mirror was covered. But I thought to myself: here are so many other yet uncovered mirrors, the eyes of those staying at wake are opened

if people are trees then they are most likely to be pear trees their fruit is at the height of the noon sun with sweet juice they too fall by themselves grubby or not with small and soft seeds

and there’s rigoletto laughing out the cry of the one who’s defeated by fate among the spectators dressed in blue by the light flooding them between the acts/ and there’s the woman eternally defeated

if you are my friend you would always believe in what I say we would bite from the same orange even if we know that stones disappear and rivers remain even if I read Heidegger and Kierkegaard

it happens every time when it rains on the backstreets you can feel through the rhythm of pending death the blood pulse in your ears an echo in a seashell your life staggering like a ballet

bubblegum balloons, mechanical clocks, counting frames with beads, letters on perfumed paper, furry toys for kittens, chocolate santa claus, giraffe stamps, thistle ponchos, black pirate