Exp

Some women are the type that a man would forgive anything. Yet they insist on being unforgiven. And that is of outmost beauty. The way they keep our hearts in their hands and squeeze the blood out in gushes is absolutely wonderful. They tear through our raw feelings with their gentle fingers and carefuly polished nails. It does not take the eyes of a masochist to admire the beauty of the whole thing. Nor does it taket the heart of an artist to take delight in the process. This is what a woman should be like. Wild and free. To inspire fear in our hearts as much as she fears us. To know that tomorrow she can vanish. To know she can fall in love with another at any moment. To know that you do not possess her anymore than she possesses you. I have no dreams of domination. Domination brings stability. Stability will not lift a finger to spark interest in anything, much less in someone else but yourself. It is only under the threat of loss that we fight for the object of our affection. And in a world where value is perceived only after loss, to have no certainty of love is the greatest blessing of them all. Of course, the world does not necessarily revolve around the tip of my pen nor the whim of my mind.

A dream of the Desert

He lingered on the balcony for a while. From where I stood I could see his smile sunken in some sort of pleasant nostalgia as if his mind was replaying a memory from another life. His short dark hair was still in the sublte breeze. His lips were full like those of a girl and sometimes gave the illusion that he was whispering to someone. As I was watching him I couldn't help but feel a mix of admiration and pity. He had the traits that all creatures of solitude share. His eyes were lost in a crimson road that lead into the horizon. he had somewhat the posture of an acient god of the desert. His skin seemed of bronze as though for milennia it was bathed in the suns gentle caress. From underneath the skin, waves of granite seemed to hold it patiently together. Small rivers of light reflected from the drops of water on his body. I watched charmed as he sat down on. From afar I could distinguish two tattoos that were flowing liquidly on his body each time he moved. It was such a confusing experience just being there following him move. He had this sad, strange beauty, like a tamed leopard. he had majesty and a sense of tranquil pride that somehow were melted into an unknown submission. I felt sad myself for a second. I knew I had nothing to give to him. These creatures rarely fall in love for one of us and if they do it is usually out of politeness. As sunlight grew dimmer he got up and blew a kiss into the wind. He closed his eyes and smiled. His lips were curved with the content of a child in his mothers arms. And then he got back in the house like in any other evening. I stood there for a moment and i actually hated him. I loathed the idea that he was to me...unreachable. But then, my love, my hate; they both passed away unoticed flowing rapidly into forgetfullness, as they always do with me.

Contemplating Divinity

I plucked a fly out of a glass today
T'was trapped within a drop of water.
I poured it's livid body on the table
And as I breathed life on it, the water scattered.

I gave shelter to the pots of flowers
From a whirlwind of frozen death.
I dragged their frightened leaves within the house
No more will nature mourn her dead.

I tend to gluttonous birds lurking the sky
And I share my bread with brotherly love.
I bury them when their time comes
And I ask nothing in return.

Yet doing this I feel that my compassion
Only makes my humanity weaker.
And I know I'd make a terrible God
For I'd care for all my children.

TU

E frumusete
Genul care aduce dupa ea ruina
Care o poarta pe limba
Si ti-o strecoara prin sarut in inima.

E rabdare
Temperata, care a purtat mii de razboaie
Care a adus suflete in genunchi
Cautand pace, pentru pleoapele-i greoaie.

E eleganta
Purtata in piele de orice tesatura
Si cand calca pamantul
Nu ramane nici un fel de urma.

E calamitate
Purtand in piele mii de incendii
Iar cuvintele ei nasc cutremure
Din oase pana-n centrul inimii.

E tot
Ce a existat vreodata in omenire
E alfa fara omega, zeul fara cult
Clipa fara regret, gandul fara simtire.

Lupul din gradina

Ai un animal in gradina
Si imi provoaca cea mai mare mila
Cand il aud oftand resemnat
In noptile cu luna plina.

Imi pare un pic trist
Cum il tii fara mancare
Si cum nu il aud niciodata
Latrand sau scheunand de foame.

Dar ce e cel mai revoltator
E felul in care te iubeste.
Cand tu treci indiferenta
Iar el cu privirea te urmareste.

Si e crud cu ce placere
Pastrezi acest amarat salbatic
Tinut, lipsit de mangaiere,
infometat, mereu in frig.

Si nu inteleg de ce nu fuge
Cand e legat cu lant de piele
Doar sta acolo oftand.
Asteptandu-te pe tine.

Si de saptamani incoace
Ma gandesc sa-i rup cureaua
Nu-l mai suport muribund
Acolo in gradina ta.


Asa ca Imblanzeste acest animal
Sau taie-i te rog lesa.
Lasa-l sa urle sau sa muste
Daca nu-i dai mangaierea ta.

In strazile batrane ale italiei e doar nimic
Nu e ecou sub pasii grei ai corpurilor burete de alcool
Nu e viata in stomacurile cladirilor indiferente
E doar Tinerete
din lilieci ce infunda ziua salile de forta,
ce zac ziua buimaciti de febre musculare.
E doar Maturitate
e doar oftatul muncitorilor straini
linistiti de bataia viselor de acasa.
E doar curatenie
fara cacat de caine sa paveze strazile.
fara caini sa graveze poteci in pamant.
Nu sunt pachete de tigari zdrobite
nu sunt case de carton ale oamenilor fara casa.
Tomberoanele nu ard aici
mizeria e impermeabila.
Apa sarata a primaverii doar inunda indiferenta orasul.
E sudoarea muncii fara scop,
Sunt lacrimile sufletelor fara dragoste,
E plans intunecat fara speranta unui soare.

Noptile sangereaza zgomot infundat de cauciuc;
Claxoane pierdute in masinarii ce poarte carne.
Nu sunt maini impletite in imbratisari,
nu sunt ochi lipiti de adoratie.
Florile copacilor te ignora discutand intre ele.
Suflul vantului te vantura de pe o parte a strazii pe alta.
Nu e adapost pentru singuratate.
Umbra sticlelor e rece din spatele vitrinelor inchise.
Barurile duhnesc a cafea, a cappuccino, a moccaccino si a tigari de foaie.
Nu sunt buze arse de nicotina. nu e foc nicaieri.
Nu e fum decat pe irisuri sub casti ce gonesc spre destinatii resemnate.
Sunt avioane care privesc cu parere de rau peste strazile goale.
Sunt pasari ce imita avioanele.
E tremur mecanic in tot ce misca.

Sunt puncte de vedere rasfirate din lumina diamantelor.
Din surasul mort al aurului. Din platina mizantropa.
manechine danseaza salbatic in haine numerotate de bancnota.
Rasufla inghetate cand dai ochii cu ele.
Pe unde treci miscarea ingheata.
Sunt doar priviri curioase sub cronometrul noptii.
Galerii de arta pastreaza cu violenta emotii fosilizate.
Arheologi ai monedei trag seva orasului pe timp de noapte.
in serile reci, prostituate privesc cald din capete absente sub gluga.
Nu au haine de intins pe sarma iluziei unui camin.
Nu au stomacuri dilatate de potolit cu mancaruri grase.
Nu au urlete de leganat in tacere.
Au doar constiinta colectiva a carnii uzate
de timp, de animale.
Pe alei luminate zac umbre de razboinici, de samani, de vanatori.
Fii ai Africii cu pielea netezita
de asfalt, de apa carbogazoasa, de martini si masline.
Orientul e izolat aici. copii lui tocesc hartie in camarute.
Nu e orez, nu e bambus sunt doar aplauze mute in ritm de asimilare.
Vikingi, traci, slavi toti si-au topit sabiile, sagetile si scuturile.
Fierarii lor acum asambleaza Fiat-uri si Ferrari-uri.
Singura istorie care razbeste e cea gravata in marmura.
Dar si ea se innegreste.
Scrisul devine mancat si literele se rearanjeaza.
In nume fara rezonanta, in ocupatii fara sens noua.
E un imperiu stacojit fara enclave.
Si aici se sting visele precum stele ce si-au consumat lumina.
Nu e paradis. Calatoria continua.

Übermensch

Vreau o fiinta umana
De modelat in imaginea mea
Cu umeri lati, puternici
Sa poarte ratiunea mea.

Vreau sa imi poarte carnea
Ce-i va creste in jurul coastei mele.
Si-i vreau simtirea puternica
in fata vantului de noiembrie.

O voi creste frumoasa si inalta
Iar mintea ei la inaltimi ametitoare
va urca avand sub talpa globul,
Fara vreo urma de remuscare.

Un animal nobil de povara
Pentru inimi rupte, ciobite sau sparte
Vor lacrima pentru prezenta lui
Mai mult ca pentru rudele plecate.

Va avea cuvinte de placere generoasa
cu care va incendia inima lumii.
Si aduce boala si ruina
In legaturile sub semnul luminii.

Il voi face adorat
De orice suflet ce zace sub soare
Iar cei ce-i vor scuipa numele
Se vor pierde precum stropi de sudoare.

Si totul pana intr-o zi
Cand voi spanzura aceasta fiinta umana
Si vantul va intoarce pagina
Clatinand un strang de arama.

Si lumea va cadea zdrobita
Cu fata arsa lacrimand acid.
nestiind ca vestea acestei morti
e de fapt al creatorului suicid.

Lethè

Imi place mirosul de rom
coborat in valuri pe limba
Imi face mainile calde
cat tu ma poti minti c-am inima.

E o alergie amaruie
la vant din pereti de sticla.
ce conduce gandul sanatos
pe un lemn de caravela.

Imi plac sincer visele de rom
ce poarta amagirea caraibilor
desi limba cunoaste subconstient
gustul metalic al butoaielor.

Dar gandul chiar nu se opreste
prin beciuri obscure de fabricatie
doar aluneca ,ducand cu el fumul
catre un creier abstinent de irigatie.

Si e o reverie inexplicabila de vara
promisa precum o sotie araba
O placere minunat de blanda,
Ce nu e niciodata in graba.

Rom, o simpla dorinta
cu o instanta implinire.
cand vrei sa uiti sau sa rememorezi
Cea mai dulce amintire.

Aici e noapte mult prea des,
si mai tot timpul versul e prost.
E seceta de cuvinte
Si alea care sunt nu prea au rost.

Sunt hornuri multe
ce sufoca in fiecare seara cerul
Si sunt si idoti
care imput meticulos aerul.

Ti-ar fi placut totusi casele
imbratisate languros de iedera
aici te poti pierde in copaci
o libertate ce cladirile ti-o ofera.

Apartamentele in mod ciudat
N-au varste numerotate ci poarta nume
de la maronni la ionescu sau yao ming
toate par sa se inteleaga de minune.

Poti prenota solstitii aici
Scriind cu mustar pe hartie
Si nimeni nu rade la ce idei ai
daca le tii discret doar pentru tine.

pana si dragostea curge
Ca dintr-o conducta sparta
ochii clipind mai usor
Cand privesc catre o exotica amanta.

Si crede-ma e plin de ochi,
privind in toate felurile
la umbra tuturor nuantelor
care existe in piele.

Doar eu raman orb
bajbaind cu pleoapele cusute
Si am milioane de caini
Care imi ling ranile in loc sa ma indrume

Urlet in 5 soapte

Oare am uitat cum sa fiu tanar?
Sa pot vorbi pe limba mamei mele?
M-am adancit atat de mult,
in idei ce imi sunt straine?

Mi-au cedat oare plamanii
de nu mai pot urla precum un animal?
S-au tocit oare falangele
ce zac intinse in loc de-a se inclesta?

Sau poate setea mi-e pierduta
de a iubi violent fara motive.
Ca de obsesii nu duc lipsa,
lipsit de alte alternative.

Atunci ce ma macina
de ce ma bucura a fi indiferent
De ce imi pare ca oglinda
e cel mai nobil monument?

Da-mi un raspuns
Sau macar da-mi de gandit
Da-mi ceva orice
ca sunt satul de cersit.

Why are you always silent?

People always ask me why I'm silent. Like i'm neglecting some civic duty by not using my right to free speech. Some are even scandalized how in such times when we are raised to have a voice and when current events demand voices to be heard can one remain mute? Truth is, I choose to dissent by being silent. I distance myself from the people that claim so valiantly to hold the truth. A conviction solely based on intuition. These people that shout with clenched jaws and throbbing veins for hours, days months; a lifetime. Always jumping from an event to another clinging to any cause like a shipwreck survivor to driftwood. i choose not to be an exciter. Not to be one of the sons of the "15 minutes of fame generation". I think it was National Geographic that declared 2011 the year of the revolution. And for good reasons. Leaving aside the people that actually had an implication in changing the course of history throughout the globe,  everyone I know is a "revolutionary spirit". Everyone has something they want you to fight along "their side". You keep hearing these pathetic clichees like "you're either with us or with them", not to mention all those quotes about muttiny and noble causes that had been recycled over and over again. The part that sickens me the most however is that these people have no steady or preastablished goals. They just adore the ideea of being against something. The illusion of relevance. Today they're fighting agains the government, tomorrow, the same people will be out in the streets protesting for better conditions for cats and dogs. These misguided people that make protesting a career will fight for just about anything or against anything. Most don't have a clue regarding the purpose, they just sympathize mechanically to any cause. Regardless of what that is at that particular time. All of a sudden, protesting has become a fashion statement or some sort of obscure mean of expression. We are bombarded with pictures titled "M3 and X @University Square durring the Riots", "Taking down the System", "Fuck the System" all described frantically enthusiastic with quotes of course, or with a 2 minute contemplated sentence or just plain lyrics taken from a Rage Agains the Machine song. By now you must see me as this condecending bitter cunt that likes to be a Negative Nancy just for the sake of swimming against the stream. Could be. However the source of my skepticism is actually your inconsistency. A couple months ago, when the riots were full blown, these self righteous individuals acted like they were the goddamn saviours of this country. They kept saying with ridiculous pride that they will stop at nothing to see the government fall. Now, these "heroes" lie on their fucking laptops masturbating on facebook waiting for another cause to get their worthless asses in the street again. I was not expecting them to organize guerilla troops and assault the Parlament. But at least the decency to respect someone's views even if they differ from their own. Some of these pricks even have the nerve to say that the revolution failed because people like me didn't go out in the streets to support their "brothers". These bastard sons of patriotism shouting their nonsense about values while whispering in the back of their heads dreams of emigration. And then, when all else fails, they remind you of the economic crisis.
The economic crisis my friend, did not affect our youth in any way. We're still comfortably living on our parents backs. Most of us at least. Our depression is far more greater that that the economy seems to suffer from. Ours is rooted in the lack of purpose that our existence has. Our whole generation. That's why everyone is biting their nails waiting for the next revolution. Something bigger than before, something to keep us busy for a week or two, to spark a feeling of fraternity among these animals against a mutual foe. At least for a little while because we all know that in any other day of the week, the stranger holding the other side of your banner is just a competitor in your ascencion. I believe speaking out and acting out is complete nonsense and the people who use preassure to encourage you to do so yourself are total hypocrites. Some might not even be aware of that but they are nevertheless. Truth be told, nobody wants to hear your voice unless it supports the cause. it's not just politicians. Even the instigators, the street prophets that claim to hold the truth. We're only encouraged to shout if we agree. If not, go home. It is as if the freedom of speech suddenly crashes into a huge wall as soon as it stops being supportive. So i choose to be a cynic. The mad shaman that nobody listens to. I'll sit in my tower of glass watching as wave after wave after wave of failed revolutions crash and scatter on the streets. There're always the same soldiers at the end of the day; proud like ancient statues always coming home saying "well at least we tried, you don't even have that". i don't nor do I need to because I know change is not written on a rock thrown at some obscure instituion nor on a piece of cloth inside a cocktail molotov. We are the problem. Our behaviour. Our mentality. i remember this guy saying he was arrested durring the riots in Bucharest and then bribed the authorities in order to avoid the legal consequences. And yet this man was out in the streets raging against his dishonest leaders. Truth be told, we're all rotten to the core. From the politicians to the man in the street. We just pick scapegoats to make it easier for us to look in the mirror.
And that was the last time anyone asked me why i'm silent.

lacomie

Randurile astea-s pentru stomac
caci inima n-a cunoscut indestulare.
La banchetul calm al organelor
Doar a privit, sorbind dintr-o tigara.

Am muscat infometat
Din carne si din ciocolata
Amagind crud gingiile
Ca vreodata o sa se refaca.

Si e mereu frig la masa mea
In tremur maduva danseaza
Inghit apoi apa cu scrum
Caci sanatatea nu ma motiveaza.

Totusi simt doar sangele alergand
pulsand in capilare ecuatii
Si simt foamea unui glob intreg
nedivizat in populatii.

"...it is such a peculiar thing how your actions speak in different manners to different people. How your very own way of being becomes somewhat like a business card that random individuals pick up and then discuss it without reading. I remember this guy S, let's call him that. He told me once : "Boy you must really hate us people, going to clubs, drinking and paying a shitload of money for basicly nothing." I arched my brow and asked why would I do that? So he went on: "Well you, going on your little trips and writting your poetry and being deep and everything; you must think the rest of the world is a damp place filled to exhaustion with shallowness." I laughed. I really did, yet I felt like I owed the man an aswer: "Truth be told, the thought did cross my mind. But I did realise that all of that is none of my concern. What you choose to do with your life affects you and you only. I could tell you that your music is shit, that the people you meet are idiots or the life you live is meaningless. That everyone you know thinks you're either fat, or stupid, or horribly disfigured and laugh at that plentifuly. I could tell you that you are not loved but tolerated for your financial potential. And you could say that I'm a faggot for writting poetry or say that I'll end up in some parking lot in a god forsaken country, begging for change. You could say that I lack depth and all my motives are actually rooted in my unability to coexist with others. And the list goes on. But how would we know all that? By looking over some pictures? By listening to some empty shell of a man talking about us behind our backs? We couldn't possibly know. For all I know you might be living a life of sweet delight. Maybe you wake up everyday with a smile on your face, being thankful for being blessed with the marvelous souls around you to share this short but glorious trip through life. Maybe your heart races to a different beat. To different music. Maybe your people do admire you and your life is filled with purpose. Or maybe not. But really now, how would I know? And would you listen to me? Would you take my word if I talked about YOUR life in any way? Of course not. I wouldn't take your word for it either. To be honest I couldn't care less about what you do and how you spend whatever resources you've got. If it keeps you alive in this world by all means do it. I don't claim to know some sort of universal truth that you've been severed from. I don't think you are blind nor deaf nor stupid for living the way you do. I believe that you are enslaved by something only if you believe it to be so. If you need God, or heroin, or any other savior, do go ahead and bring homage to any of them. We all have some sort of choices to make. Just don't act like yours are better than mine. That's just being a condescending piece of shit." - The Book I Never Wrote by Marius Cristian

Simplitate

Simpla nu e ploaia
Ce curge doar de sus in jos.
Simpla nu e nici marea
Ramasa mereu in acelasi loc.

nici pasari ce spinteca cerul
Nici pesti ce aluneca in ape.
Nici barcile de lemn
ce fura suflete din ale noastre brate.

Simplii nu-s ochii mei
Cautand grabiti, privirea ta.
nici urechile nu-s simple
incordate langa soapta ta.

O inima, si poate gresesc,
Dar nu prea e simpla nici ea
Cand refuza sa bata
In ritmul celui care o purta.

Si pielea zice ca nu-i simpla
Incalzindu-se-n atingerea ta
Si milenii de povesti binare
nu cred ca s-ar insela.

Mainile si ele se ascund
Sub creion, culori sau clape.
Sa-ti creeze un monument
Lipsit desvarsit, de simplitate.

Sincer, nu vad nimic
Niciodata, nicaieri
Sa pot spune ca e simplu
si lipsit de interes.

Habits

I used to feel
But now I think.
It made some sense,
and made it quick.


I used to think
But now I dream
It made me numb
It kept me clean.

I used to dream,
but now I drink.
it made me calm.
It made me sick.

I used to drink
and hoped I live
It made me love
enough to breathe.

I used to hope
But now I don't.
Now I just wander
Through my thoughts.

The man on the last floor

I opened the door. The door to the my apartment. The last apartment of the building. Steps echo through the large corridors. That and music. An orchestra greets the solitude. I left the music playing before I left. It's always the same song. Samuel Barber's Adaggio for strings. I live alone here in the heart of Florence. Three large rooms compose the labyrinth in which I'm never lost. I light up a cigarette and open the window. The sun is shining timidly and the streets are still paved with the rain that fell this morning. On my desk, a half empty glass of water with lips printed on the sides. As i look at it, it feels that it turned away. On a bed left undone, laying open upside down is the Sacred and the Profane. Lines and paper to fill the void. Unsuccessfull. A scribbled notebook waits patiently on one of the wooden chairs. That and pens on the floor sticking out like daggers. A withered small branch from some unknown tree still leaves a pleasant smell in the room though It lies crucified in a plastic cup filled half way with water. A smile cracks in the corner of my mouth as I think that there's nobody to see the mess. Nobody on some faraway shore to wonder what has become of me. nobody on top of a mountain to take a picture with me in mind. Nobody to ask, nobody to answer. As I lead this darkened procession to the bathroom and completely undress, a large mirror projects the image of a gargoyle. I touch the mirror and and it is as cold as my fingers. My skin, appears in tones of blue in dim light. I remembered for a second the days when I got here. A weak and shaky body that could still mimic a smile. Now, the body is firm, the jaw clenched and the eyes motionless. A demon of marble staring at itself. As i follow the lining, tattoos seem to fade and hide underneath the skin. I want to cry but this blue tinted carapace would not let a tear go. i remain lost in this thoughtful reverie for a couple minutes when a strange beat of drums suddenly invades the whole house and a voice bursts like a siren song straight into the brain. Suddenly I felt nothing. I treaded softly towards the room that sprung this symphony of calm. The voice beckoned.
Holy water cannot help you now. A thousand armies couldn't keep me out.I closed my eyes and felt my right fist clench, as my smile once again seethed with purpose...

Am stat la feareastra
ultimului etaj.
Privind cum scrum ploua
linistit, din palma mea.

Privind cum scutere
vin si pleaca.
Pierduti grabit prin beton
hibrizi de metal si om.

Cum nori trec
peste noi.
Rusinati de ce-am ajuns,
o rasa magnetica de nepatruns.

Ambulante bazaie zgomotos
muscand asfalt.
Crezand ca poate ajuta
suflete ce isi doresc doar somn...

Din camere vizibil reci
ca primavara goala.
Se imprastie aburi de mancare
ce nu hranesc fiinta goala.

Un tremur greu se strecoara
prin moile oase.
Si vantul care mangaia
acum taie calm in carne.

Am privit si iedera cum
rabdator se catara.
Pictand un stomac de lume decazuta
sub stropi de ploaie nehotarata.

As fi plans sa contribui stiind
ca apa sarata este sfanta.
Dar am o tumore de marimea egoului
ce orice regret usuca.

Nu mai am nici tigari s-ascuta
sabia mea franta.
Si orice pahar e o grenada
in stomacul meu de ceara.

Asa ca aplec capul peste
lume cufundata in vise
Sa uit de sufletul difrom
incet adorm...

Viata ca un hobby

Viata e o lupta cu o prastie un fata unui tanc. O biografie pe care nu o citeste nimeni dar toti pretind ca o cunosc. Vei innota impotriva curentului spre o insula insorita dar vei fi purtat de valuri  inapoi la mal cand corpul iti va amorti din cauza efortului. Un joc de sah unde vei pierde toate piesele, pana si regina. O piesa fara ritm pe care vei dansa sub stele. Un parfum intepator care iti va umple pieptul. O poezie divina din care nu vei intelege mare lucru si totusi ti se va imprima pe inima. Un tablou pictat intr-o culoare, culoarea ta. Va fi cea mai mare opera de arta a existentei tale si se va pierde rapid in uitare. Contributia ta la oceanul interminabil al timpului. Un dans nostalgic dar totusi plin de speranta. O enumerare de evenimente fara a duce la ceva mai mare. Va fi perechi de incaltari rupte prin gunoaie sau un trotuar de marmura. Va fi un munte in varful caruia nu e nimic. O floare fara petale ce va smulge unora zambete si lacrimi iar pe langa care altii vor trece indiferenti. Va fi o scara dintr-o groapa catre ceruri si inapoi. Va fi electricitate ce va lumina cateva secunde inainte de a se pierde pentru totdeauna. O privire calda printre blocuri de gheata. Ultimul pahar din care vei sorbi cu paiul sperand sa tina cat mai mult. O tigara din care fie tragi cu sete fie te uiti la ea cum se consuma. Va fi creatie, dragoste si zambete. Va fi distrugere, ura si regret. Va fi nastere si moarte. Si cu toate astea, fara doar si poate va fi cel mai bun lucru pe care il vei avea vreodata.

Legat in bratari de piele
Pentru ca a mea
Nu-i suficienta.

Hranesc asfaltul mocnit
Al oraselor ce-au promis
Un leac pentru decenta.

Dar cerneala mata in tesuturi
Nu-mi lasa corpul sa invie
Si ma trezesc uscat si maleabil
Precum o foaie de hartie.

Vezi, nu din vorbe, ci suflare
Canta un Orfeu schilodit
Ce se topeste in mare.

Lipsit desavarsit de rabdare
Cu care pasari zboara
Doar cu gandul anemic de plecare.

...