Dorina Neculce the poetry writer
I’m old today
I have grooved skin
of fallen tree I climb over the ruins and
I sing with a feather shifted in my temple
I bend over and I write epitaphs
my hand is trembling as a violin
the touch of the bow
it dissipates me
I become mistress wrapped in glass
the quiver breaks me
from thousands of pieces
I get myself together -bloody dagger-
blotting out the dusk
Stop, stranger In the final point And play your unreal The real Your last prom!
Do not try to understand and To untie What bound With mad strings Dozens,,,, lose up.
What use to transform yourself And now, in powder in smoke To fall, To burn, Then sleeping ashes To gather From broken wires To recompose you ..
What do you want?…
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