UN FIR INROURAT DE IARBA-A DEWY WIRE GRASS

• Am strans in palme petale de trandafiri salbatici,parfumul tainicelor candele din coaja spinilor,ingemanati in firul plantei.Cu-aripi deschise,ca un evantai,de frig si frica se-aninase-n pietre.Ce rugaciune-ascunde astazi,inserarea?Ce magica speranta prinde radacini,in adancimea gandurilor,salbatice,rebele?Parea ca tese sau sopteste,parea instrainat,de vantul aspru si uscat,parea legat de caldaramul strazii,cu lanturi prinse de genuni,precum un ghem de vestejite frunze,in pragul Primaverii,tot ce-a ramas din anul ce-a trecut,spre alte lumi,stinghere si tacute.Strabat cararea stramta,ascunsa-n dosul casei,calc peste firele de iarba verde,pregatite sa-nnopteze,ca Ielele frumoasele,cu simturi incoltite-n asteptare,luciri abastru-ntunecat,ca pletele Desrei,imi sageteaza fruntea-nfierbantata,ascult chemarea Cerului,si parca-ngenunchez,cu lacrimi calde,ca ploile de vara,si,parca Cerul s-a aplecat,din nou,spre fruntea mea,sa-i dau o sarutare,ca o ofranda insemnata,culeasa din adancuri,ca ochii tandri si molatici ai caprioarei din Padure.Din siragul de margele-al Timpului,batranul calugar intelept,care cutreiera marginile Pamantului,adunand,cu anii,din stele,margaritarele ascunse printre stanci,a mai cazut inca o bobita,pe care,aplecandu-ma incet,cu fruntea grea de visuri,am regasit-o pe caldaramul strazii,sub aripile fluturelui plapand,precum clipele cu aripi stravezii,puse din palmele calde,pe-un fir inrourat de iarba.
• I raised on the palms,wild rose petals,fragrance,the mysterious candles from the peel thorns,intertwined in the wire plant.With wings open like a fan,cold and fear,is hanging in stones.What prayer hide today the twilight?What magical hope take root in deep the thoughts,wild,rebellious?It looked like weave or whisper,seemed estranged by harsh wind and dry,seemed bound for street pavement,with chains attached abyss,like a bundle of withered leaves,on the eve of spring all that remained from last year to other worlds,singles and quiet.Cross the narrow path,hidden behind the house,step over the blades of grass green,ready to spend the night,as Beautiful Elves,with senses sprouted in waiting,dark blue glow as Desra hair,pierce my hot forehead,listen calling heaven,and if kneel,with tears warm,as summer rains,and,if heaven was bent again to my forehead,give him a kiss as a significant offering,collected from the depths,like the gentle eyes and soft,of deer in the Forest.From bead of Time,wise old monk,who scour the ends of the Earth,gathering years of stars,pearls hidden among the rocks,has feel another grape,wich crouching me slowly,with heavy forehead of dreams,I found it on the street pavement,under the wings butterfly feebly,like moments,with transparent wings,placed from my warm palms on a dewy wire grass.