Dimineata, roua rece de argint

isi depune doua aripi pastelate

sufocand buzele mate

otravindu-le cu-absint.

Si se scurg peste secunde

si te fac sa uiti de noi

asteptand in graba ploi

din dorinta de-a ma prinde.

Dimineata te transformi

in acel zmeu de hartie

care-mi zice numai mie

ca in clipe nu mai dormi.

Capturand clipa cantata

in fotografii alb-negru,

ardem temerile-n cedru

 fredonand tina cerata.

 Unde se duc clipele atunci cand noi parasim prezentul ca sa ne ascundem in clipe faurite impreuna? mor sau invata sa ne gaseasca in visele noastre? Unde pot sta ca sa le strig si sa ma gaseasca?sa le absorb si sa le cant la pian?imi place sa fug desculta de ele, sa ma ascund si sa astept cuminte sa ma gaseasca. Poate ca fac asta pentru ca sunt dependenta de drogul visarii. Ma razvratesc de cele mai multe ori, ma lupt cu mine si reusesc sa le prind intr-un borcanel si apoi sa ma ghemuiesc intre maci si sa le dau drumul.

“We live our lives, do whatever we do, and then we sleep. It’s as simple and ordinary as that. A few jump out windows, or drown themselves, or take pills; more die by accident; and most of us are slowly devoured by some disease, or, if we’re very fortunate, by time itself. There’s just this for consolation: an hour here or there when our lives seem, against all odds & expectations, to burst open & give us everything we’ve ever imagined, though everyone but children (and perhaps even they) know these hours will inevitably be followed by others, far darker and more difficult. Still, we cherish the city, the morning, we hope, more than anything for more. Heaven only knows why we love it so.”(The Hours)