Sunday, October 18, 2015

Dorin Popa writes


I’ve always  been  thrilled
by  the  moment  when men  lose  their  little  wings,
by  the  moment  when  they  begin  to  slowly  revolve
around  their own lives
with  a  kind  of  frenzy
with  the  same  amazement  I’ve  always  watched
intrigued  how  my  fellow  creatures  plunge  into  their  lives
with  indifference
with  indifference  and  fatigue
with  a  sweet  and  sad  exhaustion – like  a  stone
surreptitiously  my  friends  revolve themselves  into  silence
– some  easily, with  discrete  smiles,  as if  joking
– some  others,  resolutely, stubbornly
hasten to shake their flakes  off
and  in  vain do I  call  out to them,  in  vain do I  shout  in  despair
and  pull  them back by their  feet …
they have sunk  into  their  lives  to  their  waist,  to  their  ears
they don’t  want, oh,  they don’t  want  to  hear  anything  but
the nourishing  sound
of their  revolving around  this  world, this  life,  this  death
oh, my  friends  have  all  disappeared
swallowed  by  their  dull, hungry  brown – desperate  lives
and  I, strange  and  immature, see  how  the  possible  is narrowing
how  it  turns  into  a  spot,  into  a  trace
into  the  dim  breath  of  a  memory,
and afterwards  nobody  can  remember  anything  about  it

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