In my family parents use to give names of countries to their children
Let me tell you something about my sister America
She’s younger than me
Her starred and striped shadow lives here mine lives
My brother George
Is wearing an empty bottle of beer on his head
He is sitting at his old table
In the middle of his office
I think he must be dead
He is staring at the eyes of the tapestry
I carved a big hole into my chest
As I intend to set an athanor wicket to it
And since I was so empty
I put my left hand into it out of curiosity
Fumbling to find my soul
Nothing
A reckless
You can see me and you cannot see me
You can see me only not seeing
My speech is speechless
I run without any movement
I know I am a liar
But I tell the truth once in a while
A camel is walking down the street
And walks and walks
She knows a lazuline oasis at the end of it
So many green and purple grapes
The gritty distance is
Ajar
Re-membering the songs of waves
When I was almost three years old, my parents and I were living in Tecuci, a small town which had nothing special. I remember myself crossing the most circulated street, which was close to our house,
My uncle is growing ill
Since his lover caught a strange cold
Her lungs are crossed by a theory of a window
Like a new pair of garden scissors
They’re swinging together in a rocking
Is it the spring that brings back our embrace in the womb of nature?
Is it the rush to be again together when the bells ring?
Is it the door of heart that I wish to be left open?
Is it love when
The autumn morning unfolds another day announcing low.
She is ready to whisper
Those words like snow in sleep, for every blinking window.
I wear this big new pair of snugly laced shoes, black and
It was after graduation
And all the gates were wide open to everyone
Like smiling mouths with fierce invisible fangs.
Transition – that stone-eyed gipsy woman –
Lived with us for a while,
We stopped the time in the middle of the field
To study the effect of the sunrays
Upon the poppy petals.
Now it is high time for dreaming seeds
To jingle in a gipsy dance.
In the sky
I am waiting, dear,
In the silent field.
Thoughts are blowing mild,
All among your trees.
I am waiting distant
At a broken hour.
Steps would follow ways
All along your dreams.
I would
I long to hear you speaking again,
To ask you if you are happy
And to retort of course I am.
My cheeks would painfully smile
And you would ask me what’s up.
Yet I would answer it’s nothing.
I
that morning so green and fine
when that Finnish sun reechoed all over its shine
as if it were the only star,
that morning unexpectedly lanky and new
as if it were not just one, but two,
we were
A poem is a whip of roses
Used for lashing the dried path
That leads to the unsurpassable wall.
Standing in front of the cliffs there is
No sound to hear,
No word to say,
No heart to
The night is smiling with the moon,
She’s telling stories in the dark.
She has to leave with Venus soon
And fetch fresh air in the park.
A ginger blonde turns on the light.
The sun is still
It is a broken day
When I bury the word,
Even if its hull shows it is alive and healthy.
The heart of the earth has been beating for so long calling it!
The word flies away to spend
Wanton
My love,
I am going to die tonight.
The dusk is falling over these tall acacias –
Their flowers rosy, white and violet blue –
Three subversive brown-skinned men,
Waiting at the window to wail
It takes a shower and he is bright,
Watching its body humble and thin.
The water like rain is there to clean
The clothes of the day and those of the night.
Its skin. Is it white or has it a
I was changed. I am totally new.
The one you knew
Has become so weak and small,
A thread of dust on the skin of a doll.
Her rain – it used to be a call,
With nimble fingers like a
I take the bus that goes to you, my friend!
Now I know the way will never bend,
Since I see
The poppy lace that grows in France for me
So red by the field
That it is like a shield.
I taste
MM