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■ Pașadine în vers alb (73)
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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2015-03-03 | [Acest text ar trebui citit în english] | I miss wet steam of his nostrils. That wise horse loved me. There were (i)logic moves like on a chess board between us. The non-sight would grope your senses Your sincere strolls besides the odd poplars Bobbed the obsolete romance With the whites from the balcony Black shoes with shoelaces / my too wise unicorn / The apricots moan of unrepeatable burden I'm afraid I still fear That Don Quixote will die On a magical day in September And that wise horse…he'll die with his eyes wide open Smelling the bitter seaweed. The horse submitted to being shoed His mane plaited with ten ribbons Was crying not to sacrifice a workhorse All butchers at the slaughterhouse smell of lies or disease Among us the horses run in their last race There is no finishing line the winner will be shot for sure. The horse is running with his wet nostrils Love summer are burning at reticent flames The pavement si spitting damp lava The city thirst without horses Requires a thousand years As a thousand drops in the ocean The horse is licking my hands straight I have my coral eyes open / coloured fish in the ocean / You move first. I am waiting a century a race or a step Checkmate I will step beside loneliness since now.
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