Poezii

Nicolae Sirius The truth of flowers Spring has been woeful Its legend has confused The flowers. They are adept At seizing the truth. Then summer, Blood-river, bathing you in its Arms. Capped with dead angels And cracked crockery Alms were given to those Remembering the dead: Dead souls ante portas. I have gathered the pages Leftovers from the banquet of evenings Before whirlpools Draw them into fiery ovens. Loaves of bread Or damascened leaves transparent In the translucent hands. Your soul appeared as a question Then in the shape of a blessing Riving the eye of a beast. Your soul was lamentation, and later The soft breeze of the waves. Your soul was held captive By kings and their slaves. Beaten and hated, your soul went away, Unknown, unfindable Though lambs graze in its regions Their gullets filled With your substance. Fields lost And forsaken where great roads, we, Could have joined pathways at angles. Poetry page