Fluerașu Petre

because I never learned what pain is all about I’m spraying you with love lost inside your hair don’t shave your hearts any more sing in the middle of the night, shout anything for a drop of

Venom must be tasted with moderation In our times there’s no more room for salvation Vengeance becomes the highest stake Electors crying: Havoc, and give us a brake! Let slip the dogs of war,

we are building walls, kissing gods, fighting wars and crying for help the birds smell our chopped bodies we’ve fallen asleep on the cross preparing to resurrect when the ego is all burnt

a summer’s night – the spider waiting under the moonlight

many words can be said about modesty with the characteristic superego of the modest… the street dissolves in me between seed peels and swears the birth of a hope waterproof, impossible to

“brushing the yard the brush forgets the snow” Haiku – Basho The refinement of the Japanese is fulfilled in the miniature art. The oriental is defined by the art of essence, by the

It’s winter. The snow is growing, stratus after stratus, covering up the earth, worming the young buds just sprung with her cold body. The warmth of slumber tempts beings, silence surrounds

the night moans silently a swansong for the still unborn children between howls and roars you must understand, Boris, the end is inevitable you can’t spit on all the graves… but there is

surrounded by devastation, I laugh a flower bursts tearing down steel life insinuates through every orifice of the fence we build useless walls the river invades the fields reflecting the sky in

the clay runs down on my black hands looking for dirt water will always return to azure accompanied by drums in the night of the shining dead a roar comes from the walls as they spit bullets what

in the middle of a quiet universe the ice cubs flow on rainbow strings stories disintegrate between the orient and the yellow coffin a world under a burning flesh sphere the angels moan in the

comets bombard the clouds with black silk Taft rises from the murky water a legend forged in buried ovens snakes crawled up onto pieces of soul we look in the mirror only to see our shame,

inside the soul of the mountain deep, were the trees have built castles of energy the roots of another sun black water residues entrapped in amulets, with the screams of today’s Titanic the ice

a day in winter high up on the white mountain – never-ending tale

The liberty of free speech, the possibility to do anything you like is the most important quality of man. Our freedom is, in most cases, overwhelming, and only the wise can handle it. That is why

a pack of statues right in the middle of the road - eternal resting

My steps carry me towards the volcano which might fully guards the bay. The clouds align to fit better in the picture of the mountain. Everything is determined by the presence of this colossus. The

The wood seems to be smiling. Drops of water are running on the trees. The rain just ended, and the drops shine on the green leafs giving strength. Everything is wet, but underneath this humidity,

Tibet stretches before my footsteps. I can barely distinguish the form of the houses from this height. The wind is wiping my cheek. My face is all red, the tears run down on my cheeks, but I am

The country road leads right by the pond. The water waves slowly, almost guiding my footsteps. Tiny waves run across the surface kissing the earth. They brake and form again naturally, without

a turn of the tide only white water around - cemetery of ships

rays of pure light and isolated flowers - birth of a rainbow

The snow rises up around me. I walk arduously through the snowdrifts, leaving deep marks in the white snow. Everything around me is still. Not even a breeze troubles the monumental silence that

I had heard many stories about this place. But nothing can compare with reality. The sweet cherries glow in the sunlight. The light seems to want to shine more than the flowers that cover up the