Sixty Candles...

... a sea of trembling, naked flame
  dodging the potent winds on winding paths,
  a  glowing warmth enveloping the fog
  against the whispers of the endless night
  sometimes as silent witness of despair
  and others as bewildered chirp of joy.

Who thought of dressing all the inky wounds
to curb the fever in these tired soles?
And why this mirthless, whinig harph
is dripping grains of light from all its pores?

Too late. The yawning, slouching truth
Won't be  delayed, or fooled, or bribed.



Lumina lina? ( pentru Ioan Alexandru)
Sau Moartea citeste ziarul ( Pentru Mircea Dinescu)


Reteta de facut lumina

Peste un oloi plin ochi de rugina
Moartea cloceste si cerne lumina
Broboada-i  de neguri si zoaie si scrum
Si poame de smoala si zdrente de fum

Ea mesteca, schiauna, falcile-si toaca
Un hohot lugubru  in cremene sapa
Amara latura  gatlejul i-l arde
Cand curge, prelinsa, prin vintrele-i fade.

Isi plange povara, se-ndoaie si latra
Scobita si surda si oarba si moarta
Cand tristul ei scancet de noapte se spala
Lumina irumpe fierbine si goala.