And then you never knew what this was...

Friday, 13 November, Year 7 d.Tr. | Author: Mircea Popescu

Yet products have started to disappear, and many have left, and the night is falling. Everyone agrees it serves them right, a crowned genius is to be born ; the orchestra began with a graceful indignation : space, infinity of harmonic sadness.

The man had started talking to himself, and from the tower spied afield lords with lordly hair. Colors and smoke of autumn, the poet's lament - water is cold, leaves rain, years have passed and yet here's the street. O, woman, mask of color, coquetish pinata of refinements! There are some maidens with translucent cheek, and yet they sleep alone, alabasterly serene.

There are a few corpses in the city, my love. This is all I came to tell you. Push the armchair closer to the stove, I want to listen to the storm through the chimney, or to my days, all the same - now that's a symphony I'd like to learn. In the park regrets are crying again whilst I pass by your very street, recalled by no-one. The window's a poem in lead and round sparks, and I quite foreign to my land. Yet in a quiet evening, a bird shall pass.

Oh, come no longer, it's too late. The velvety pansies died atop the whitish marble. Secret notes wasted, sad, funeral perfumes. From all I write, my love, transpires all too well a shared, deep disinterest in all affairs of yours and all affairs of men.

Here I am. Solitary. The city at night, construction yards at rest, imposing corpse upon imposing bier. I'm uglier, I'm gaunt, the wind begins to moisten glass. Autumn tears posters and flowers. For all the noise, mind comprehends naught. Whatever, whomever once lived - nothing remains. But if there isn't who to talk to, there's writing.

"There's the ravens" I said to myself and then sighed. Relatively, pardon. Excelsior, thin branches with white flowers lift me from error, occidented ideals. There's times when I have it all - silentious, tender psychosis. Now the park stands, devastated, fatal, eaten by phthisis and cancer, stained in raw flesh. Now begins the hospitality kinescope.

For all these nights I hear the rains, I hear matter crying. I'm by myself and my mind flies to those lacustrian dwellings. A pain without a name. Today I'm no longer me, and my mind hurts. Hail Venus, full of flower, closely resembling a violet grapery. There's alphorns blowing in the hollows - don't cry, have no fear, just listen! Hear that call from below, of earth that entreats us.

The summer's season is finite. Both autumn and winter are coming together, cheap sandals in hand, across the rivers of sickly schoolchildren. The candles weep out your years too, but mostly mine. There's a lengthy desertion rumouring all around. The trees, on the street, and above. The whole place's uneasy, as if someone snowed in the cemetery.

What truly sad love, to lie, for want, with those who die. A girly props a snowy pole, while the boulevards stretch at night. I know not one single thing, for days now, years. In ethereal aromas, poetry or destiny, whereupon the world you're shining, come! I come.

I've noted similar aspects to my own thoughts in you. Oh, the violet twilight.

Oh brother, it's so late, and still I'm not dead. Everything's as sad, today as yesterday, deluge of dureri. While the leaded caskets slept deeply, and leaded flowers and funeral garments, I sat alone in the crypt... and it was windy... Asleep, upturned, my plumbed love screeched. I called it out, alone with the dead, and it was cold. Its wings hung low.

I must now drink, to lose knowledge no one has. Otherwise, it's hard on earth. You're reading, nasally, a decadent poem, faintly cadaverous ; I foresee the rosy trucks of their purple loads ; she carries it across the cangrenous gardens.

Recall that day I said you were beautiful, bloody red lips and glittering eyes ? My darling with corpsly visage, maiden forgotten in the tower, eternally weeping over the balcony - I carry you in my dream. With all my senses inervated fantastically, Poe, and Baudelaire, and especially Rollinat sucked. Nobody, nobody, nobody. All the better.

For a long, long time now I've known two poplars. To this day they're in my way. Perhaps tomorrow, if I'm gone, they won't be seen by anyone. I was supposed to expect you, seeing how I'm lost among divers solitudes without egress. Let it put us to sleep for oblivion instead.

Slowly in dreary rain a chest curved by coughing turns round a corner. Blood in hand, Ker Chief.

For you, I am a monster, brooding my longing of a new time. In your world I barely fit, but before long I'll be going for the throat. There, where's no one, and no words further needed, there night surprised us, being nothing the whole day.

So what if astral bodies turn ? It snows in the big city, and the night's full of orgy. Nocturnal women only hold the corners, like gold supporting orchestral fanfare. There's ghosts mortgaged in piles atop. The blizzard is fighting a terrible battle down by the abbatoir, and losing to warm blood pouring through the gutter. The crows like so many fleas walk over the red icy bridge, and guzzle the sop. My darling, it's me! It's me, and as the night falls wolves come closer to your frozen door.

Nocturnal books, which aren't women, who shall read you, hooks of iron. Pale, the nervous autumn died singing and playing the lute. The days flow towards the graveyard, resigned, one by one. Once there they gather and pool like a very expectant molasses. Time's powdered me among the books, there's dusty embankments where you come no longer. Leave the room empty, leave the lamp smoky, let be.

I can no longer sing romance. All's quiet among me. Oh God! The sheer necessity of wine! Life peters on without a clear direction. This age's made me so very cultured I forget myself all over people. Of late I've learned so very much I'm up to a point notable. There could be room for many reforms, I thought by myself as I was without anyone.

Oh, lost fools gesturing down avenues. They are to take from the skies what's not to be found among the stars. What fear without cause arrived ? The very joys of subconscious life!

Ad infinitum.

Category: Cuvinte Sfiinte
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No Responses

  1. Oooh, I see what you did there. :D

    Why these particular pieces of Moldovan origin?

  2. Mircea Popescu`s avatar
    2
    Mircea Popescu 
    Monday, 30 November 2015

    Yes.

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