Poezii

Nicolae Sirius The Ritual The house is no house Meals are no meals Your love is no wine If you have no cognition of death. Time? The shirt in which it was sleeping, With the peace of the field, is now torn At the sleeves. The lilac is laughing, you do not know Why. A strange shriek urges the growth Of the grapes. The truth? The house is not ours. In summer when it is ours It is not quite a house. Poetry page