The rolling impetus from the heart of the objects,
leaving erased time traces,
is seeking its luck abroad.
It’s pulsing curved water colors
in lighting circles.
Maybe you will see inside
how
I’m more leafless than a tree,
there’s no bird singing on my branches,
it’s just the thin wind with cold wings
passing by the lands of the north.
Layers of haze spread over the forests
stay
I can feel your alluring scent in the room.
I dive in the waiting tardiness.
The anxiety rests in the evening thoughts
where there still are unanswered questions
from hiding targeted looks.
But
Dressed in the bright mantle of the night
you become high and transparent,
dreamy silhouette in the crescent moon
on the face of the mirror that silences pass through:
words have sleeping
It seems that
the supposed
cloth spider in the corner
watching you through the corner of the eye
it’s not there.
I’m waiting with the trying temptation
to break its thin fiber
that’s
I enlighten myself in holy words
through the aura of the shadow signs,
where the spirit enters into things
with the sold and unknown truth
like a fiction on the eye’s face
intangible and
You draw something indistinctly on each page,
some kind of lines that seek their points
where the gone souls will meet.
Maybe it’s not the time to burn
the meaning of ill words with sounds in
Why do I cry?
Nobody can see me,
the salty tears fall and they burn
the cold cheeks’ shoulders.
I don’t know what bothers me
my inner core instantly boils,
the suffering is making a
Where did the birds singing my joy leave,
who stole the pleasure of the blossomed trees,
the short summer rains with their fresh air,
after which the eyes get flooded with green?
The purple of
Spring between the stones of fortune
where the flowers watch themselves in the mirror,
the thirst asks the brass deer to come,
with amber eyes
and thin hoofs.
They remained at the edge of the
We get rid of bad habits,
we apply bandage to the wound,
the mystery is making a confession.
A cat cuts your way,
the awakened subconscious works,
the perplexity arises
why the will does not
The moon went to sleep in the lemon upfront,
I sneak on the porch of the house,
the voice of night is laying in poems
on each page.
Nothing that I’d written is being erased,
the hikers
I will add this number to the following
and who knows how many other operations
with terms replacements
until the posterity thinks further
in another language made of
no alphabet.
Our own
I laid my eyes on a wind tree
stroking its trembling bark and leaves.
I see the sun like a heart
with saps in the roots and bubbling in the blood,
with hot longing and ripped fruit.
The sky with
The autumn was being late,
Mircea’s shadow is watching vigilant
even in dreams, at Cozia.
The clouds are being read over the mountains,
they’re being written,the weapons sent by
the Saxons
The place, I don’t know it, nothing happens, it’s hostile,
the trees dress with heavy snow,
the thin wind passes by horseback over forests,
somewhere further, there’s an old and bleak
The circu
The swords swallower died,
he swallowed his tongue,
all the others do not understand.
A clown smiles with pain,
the lions jump through hoops of fire,
the elephants obediently
The city sighs in the rain
the children live under its streets
left to their fate.
They come out during the day,
the hunger forces them to seek,
they love life and cling to it.
They have the
Stone bodies with metal hands
grab the stillness horizon at their chest,
the mountains make a wall and wait.
The springs dig narrow valleys,
the time rolls over the edges,
the uncontrollable
I watch the nappy twilight on the window,
my grandma is setting the table and is making my bed.
There are some leftover pies on the table,
I eat another one,
the burned wick lamp looks
I am a white butterflies’ composer,
the joy flourishes
in the bright songs of May
and the rains listen to how the herbs grow.
The green smolders on the eye’s valleys
the days and nights are
You were like an obsolete street
with outskirts name.
In a plain town
the dust rises above the ankles.
You stumbled through the corn field,
the wind wiped your traces.
The nights built in
I am carved on a salt wall
with the name where I lived in
the self cave.
Other traces erased or had dripped
where I’d been, with no seasons.
Moisture is like a beast inside the
He was squeezing his eyes in the sky
with maple leaves hands
and placing them in the orbits like children.
The mouth lets its sticky words
on the autumn rusting lips.
A temptation as a
