4am

Aud vocile oamenilor
si mi se impletesc in cap
un milion de ani lumina
pana am vazut zecile de semne
in cartea scrisa cu ochii tai
ca un rasarit infinit
sau ca niste carbune care licaresc
in intimitatea serii pustii.
Ma doare?
Sunt si nu sunt
pasarea care moare atunci cand e mai vie ca niciodata.
Sunt prin ranile eroilor ce au pierdut in iubire.
Sunt la patru noaptea in bucatarie
cand privesc spre cele mai absurde discutii.
Sunt cand nu vreau sa fiu
un nor ce ploua lacrimile pierdute de mult timp
prin ochii mei pustii.
As vrea oare sa dispar,
sa ma transpun in apa
si sa-ti oglindesc idealurile lumii putrede?
Vad cum oasele se transforma in cruci
pe amintirile perfect simetrice
de parca toata substanta mea poetica
a fost menita exact pentru asta.
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I hear the voices of people
and inside of my head,
thousands of years of light are braiding
until i finally see all the symbols
in the book written with your eyes.
Like an infinite sunrise
or flickering embers
in the intimacy of a senseless night.
Hurts?
I am and i am not
the bird that dies the moment
she lives life the most.
I am through the wounds of the heroes
that lost through love.
I am at 4am in the kitchen
when i look at the most absurd fusions
and i don’t want to be.
I am a cloud that rains tears
that got lost for a while
through my empty eyes.
Would i want to disappear
and transpose into a water
that would mirror the ideals of a rotten world?
I see the bones that alter into crosses
fixed on perfect symmetrical memories,
as if all my poetic substance
was meant to exist exactly for that reason.

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