My you yours

I do not wish to write a praise
to youth
words live only to serve unknown purposes that men share at will
half by that, half by what they mean.

there is a lack of I in me, for I feel so loved by you
and in that way I may lose myself,
to that place where I am no more

Heart-strong,
My voices call you that way
And it’s fair for them to do so
so unfair for I to write a praise
Yet what better use to such lines to give
but to let them be

You are heart-strong,
Heart-warm, heart-given

And if no such word exists
I’ll write it down in your palm,
I’ll whisper it into your breath
So a lung can explain it better
in a language that only your chest-cage knows
as it merges into meaning.

will you understand my necessity of words?
or of gesture...
I will be able to say “I love you…”
and instead of this praise
Outside insults will cease to touch you

we will be enough,
and therefore die.

not Rodin

Am pornit
spre necunoscut
nu ma mai pot opri
cu o mana legata de san, cu ochii in orbitele
adanci
cu pielea asmutita
spre frica.

Si ranjesc printre cusaturi
si-mi port mandra bratul pe soldul cazand...
Ea ma asteapta.

Ma inconjor in zi si in lumina ca sa ma vada mai bine
’omul mergand’
sunt eu.

Mourning hymn

Pentru legaturile negre care ne leaga de tarana.
Pentru ei si pentru cei cu bataie
de inima.



Press your cheekbone onto my heart
Plant the anger of never coming back.
When your tears grow inside of me,
let them branch across my lungs
all across…

Stagnation always made us feel
Like all is alive in a numbing sleep
(Even when gravity pulls our bodies into the ground)
like all the world will soon be a half-forgotten sound

Just like flesh I grow sick of clotted blood
When your presence still lingers into me,
but you open doors when none would budge
you close me in, you drag me far
all across

I’m not lost, I’m finally where I’m supposed to be
around you
when your tears grow inside of me
let them branch across my lungs
I’ll let you get across

The Artist

I think I’m painting myself
Mixing colours in your hands
Blindly searching for the yellow, for the orange
For that which must matter
For that…

I know you can still see the brush-strokes on my skin
I’ll be better, I will
In time
When my left hand won’t be as clumsy anymore
With black paint
When I learn to hide the shadows
Into light

When water will stop flowing across my canvas,
I’ll be able to see
you
watching me

With a paint-brush in your hands

Scenery

The lake is dark tonight, o’er the treetops it floats again
Silently
Gathering the strange glittering from above its surface
Frenetically so, like there is no tomorrow, since there was no yesterday.
The lake is flat tonight, stretching for air, a shallow layer
Of water-dew
A fishing-net, an anchor for the stars and I.

It’s drawing circles above my head
The dark lake-water of tonight,
Metallic in its appearance,
cutting
Oh, God!-

-Through the treetops,
Silently.