The Seventh Elegy - Nichita Stănescu
Adăugat de: Lucia

The option to real

I live in the name of leaves, I have nervures,
I change green on yellow and
I let myself perished by autumn.
In the name of stones I live and I let myself
bitten cubically on the roads
scoured by cars quick.
I live in the name of stones and I have
six stones spitted through the teeth
of the young woman thinking over and over again
of dances lazy of ebonite.
In the name of the bricks I live,
with bracelets of mortar fastened
at each arm, while I embrace
a yolk possible of the existences.
I have never known to be sacred. Much,
too much I have the imagination
of the other concrete forms.
And I don’t even have time because of that
to think
of my own life.
Here I am. I live in the name of horses.
I neigh. I jump over cut off trees.
I live in the name of birds,
but especially in the name of flight.
I believe I have wings, but they
are not seen. Everything for flight.
Everything
to cut off that that it is
of that that it will be.

I stretch my hand which instead of fingers
has five hands
that instead of fingers
have five hands that
instead of fingers
have five hands.

Everything to hold
in detail everything
to feel the sceneries unborn
and to scratch them
to blood
with a presence.



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