Sfințirea clipei și a momentului

Cruel Cronos engraved me early,

not with gentleness,

but by hands of shadows

who mistook my springtime figure

for silence,

who thought my tears were seeds easily buried.

I was a sanctuary of lilies,

crushed before the bloom,

a jasmine bruised by shadows,

an innocent violet forced into stone.

Their voices were storms,

their laughter-chains of iron,

and I, too petite to fight,

learned the language of fear.

Yet within me, a sunflower spark

refusing to give up its soul,

rooted itself deeper,

drinking light even from darkness,

whispering: you are more than their hands,

you are more than their cruelty.

So I rose, piece by piece,

a wounded Rose of Venus,

crowned not by shame,

but by the fire of endurance.

Where they carved burning scars,

I carved flourishing constellations.

Where they plucked petals,

I grew wings of lavender and flame.

Now my voice is the garden restored:

not silent,

not broken,

but alive

a testament that innocence stolen

is not innocence lost,

that even from the deepest, darkest wound,

a sunflower can rise

and teach the world

what it means

to see, to feel,

and yet not become a shadow itself.

It happened on one blue day

when my petals were bruised,

and my spirit almost hung itself,

no longer bearing the weight

of being an immortal light source

in a time of forgotten prayers.

I was nearly weeping

not in storms that swallow the world around me,

but in the language of scorpion grasses at dusk

soft, bowed, barely blooming.

He came like a gentle comet,

not as a man,

but as the guiding Hermes

a smile, soft as sacred crocuses,

carrying no judgment,

emerging from a cold land,

gently touching the unopened bud

of my fragile sorrow,

just to remind me:

someone still sees.

Then came the embrace

two arms wrapped around

like vines of honeysuckle

entwining the walls of my cold cathedral of solitude

with warmth and grace:

a tulip and hyacinth embroidery.

I did not flee from that sacred place,

not because I forgot Eros,

but because I remembered Persephone,

longing for the sun,

wandering through labyrinths of wonder

even in Hades' hasty gentleness.

But guilt arrived

on a shocking wave of pain,

measuring the weight of my heart

against a moment I did not ask for

nor did I deserve it,

yet I allowed it.

Not ashamed for desiring a mortal feeling,

but for that pale flicker of bloom

that rose inside my crimson heart

and dared to face the sun.

Yet even so,

I crossed no sacred boundary,

and kept my faith to Hera's vows

my trembling hand bore no corruption,

only the scent of oleander.

Now I return

to the sacred garden I tend with care,

to the altar of my chosen love,

where trust grows like lavender

at the gates of devotion.

He saw me unguarded,

but I see myself whole again

a celestial being reborn beneath the stars:

not untrue or disloyal,

only open,

only tender,

only alive.

Time has passed fast,

Yet it kept me awake

Constantly living that moment,

That spark of eternity,

That ray of glowing sunshine,

Luminous and delightful as the bluebell

Photographed by a pair of big, earthy eyes,

Kept alive on the surface of my retina,

Along neuronal pathways,

Planted like a sunflower seed

Deep inside my consciousness,

Flourishing and thriving,

Sweet as a lavender mousse.

So if the memory of our first encounter

Is delicate as a jasmine flower,

Or mesmerising as a sunset hibiscus,

You, my beloved, are the Rose of Venus

As Aphrodite dances around Gaia,

Leaving traces of red jasper petals,

Keeping us on the path to greater love-

So do you.

As the pure ones walk through the Garden of Eden,

Or as Iris brings the majestic rainbow

As a messenger of the gods,

Growing straight along its path to wisdom,

Bringing strength and boldness

To those who are blessed enough to see

So do you.

Dear gentle reader,

Beneath the pale moonlight,

I have entered your dreams

and whispered softly

the legend of soul ties.

Slowly, you step beside me.

Hungry eyes gather in the distance.

The reality swallowing us whole

is nothing but a forgotten battlefield.

Your razor-sharp gaze is captured.

There, among dozens of rotting corpses,

stand two figures suspended in silence,

like the final pillars of a fallen temple.

The first— a broken priest.

Wounded, endlessly praying,

his trembling hands, his crooked fingers,

still searching for a fragment of mercy.

The second— a gentle demon.

Waves of warmth orbit around her.

Her sapphire eyes remain fixed upon the horizon,

calmly gazing into the endless dark.

You see them, don't you?

Remain still.

Obedience is the key.

Watch closely,

for what you are about to witness

will unsettle the deepest parts of your soul.

She senses the priest's sorrow

rising above the dead surrounding him.

His misery speaks louder than words.

"Take my hand," she whispers.

"Drink from my waters.

You have exhausted your strength

for far too long."

"My fair lady... my endless cup of hope...

How could a poor soul like mine

ever deserve to reach you?"

Like distant constellations,

their paths collide.

He drinks fiercely from the source of her light,

while she willingly holds him close,

believing compassion alone

can heal what time could not.

"How can this be?

Have I become blind

or simply mad?"

"Silence.

Ask yourself what you're truly seeing.

The truth stands before us.

It is only hidden

from those unwilling to look."

What feels like thousands of years pass.

The priest and the demon

begin studying one another.

One— cold as forged steel,

calculating,

entirely ruled by the mind.

The other— guided by razor-sharp intuition,

profound empathy,

and quiet emotional wisdom.

Again and again,

the priest manipulates, betrays, wounds,

engraving new scars into her soul.

Again and again,

the demon forgives.

Once. Twice.

Until—

something clicks.

The pattern reveals itself.

The spell dissolves.

She stands perfectly still,

frozen in time, calculating,

without anger, without reaction.

Holding every advantage,

she prepares her departure

in absolute silence.

She could have struck him down.

She could have carved wounds

deeper than those he had ever known.

But she finally understands.

This is no wounded soul.

This is a predator.

Her sapphire eyes become crystal clear.

And then—

she goes supernova.

The script shatters.

The roles reverse.

For the first time,

the priest chokes on fear.

He was clever.

Subtle as a serpent.

Yet painfully predictable.

She had always seen beyond the mask.

She understood him

better than he understood himself.

For the depth of her empathy

could only exist

because it mirrored

the depth of her own darkness.

And his downfall

would become far worse than hell.

"He searched for golden nectar,

yet stumbled upon an unknown creature."

The dead begin to vanish,

laughing into the wind.

The battlefield collapses

into an endless abyss,

opening its ancient mouth.

"Poor little priest...

At last,

you have shaken hands

with your karmic mirror."

Simt a iernii rece gheață,

Șoptindu-mi vag și cu dulceață

Cum mă-ndeamnă să visez

Și-un ultim portret să-i pictez.

Precum un sacru jurământ,

Îi aud vocea sus, în vânt,

Și, după multe lupte crunte,

Eu pic lat pe-acel lugubru munte.

Stau, ascult și bag de seamă:

Geru-mi cântă cea din urmă gamă.

Fără vlagă, treptat devin greoi

Și-ntrezăresc priviri de moroi.

Oare îmi joacă mintea feste?

Sau au primit și ei de veste

Că-n aceste ceasuri de tortură

Cu greu mă zbat la ultima pictură?

E ger, și albul mă completează,

În ochi, marea ceață se instalează.

Cu-n gest final, cam dureros,

Închei acest portret tăios.

I am just a cub,

Alone in a garden of flowers.

And as much as I delight in being seen by others,

Ilong, with all my being, to finally know myself.

As the world pauses to take a breath,

I press forward with quiet courage.

Freedom unfurls its petals within me,

Opening in this very moment.

So I take the leap of faith, and jump.

At the beginning of that journey,

The garden feels as though it tears my flesh apart

A disturbingly pleasant sensation,

For I have walked among these realms before,

Before I even knew how to shape sound with my voice.

Without rushing,

Without making the water tremble,

The conscious mind gives way,

Leaving space for the adventure to blossom.

So it begins.

The traveler's portal opens its radiant chest,

And the cub passes through.

From that realm of truth, I drift back in time,

Peering through binoculars at ancient predators,

Studying their movements,

Tracing them like vines across memory.

Once, the creatures noticed my gaze

And though they attacked,

I escaped With only a scratch on my paw,

A scar like a thorn's kiss.

I return to the present garden,

But the traveler aches for more.

And so, it begins again.

The next realm blooms in Atlantis.

The cub now breathes beneath sapphire waters,

Transformed into a creature of the deep,

A flower of the ocean's secret garden.

I drift among coral columns and temple ruins,

Their stories flowing into me

Like nectar through a stem.

My touch gathers their forgotten whispers,

Petal by petal, memory by memory.

At last, the fuel of wonder fades,

And the traveler must return.

The garden door calls softly,

Its blossoms swaying in welcome.

I leap once more,

And with gratitude,

reality gathers me gently

Back into its fragrant arms.

Te ai stins din viață;

Off,tăticul meu drag!

Într-o sumbră dimineață

Cad ploile n prag.

Ma simt atât de pustiit,

Nu pot cuprinde in cuvinte, 

Doru mi ți l transmit 

În ecouri, scump părinte.

Îți șoptesc printre gânduri, 

M agăț de amintiri 

Din rătăcitele timpuri 

Pierdute n povestiri..

Erai blând, spiritual;

Te exalta copilăresc

Chiar și detaliul banal,

Zâmbindu mi ștrengăresc.

Sfidai orice impas 

Dârz și ncrezător;

Mă fascina din taifas 

Harul tău de narator.

Eu,adio,nu ți voi spune 

Mai bine...pe Curând 

Spre noua ta dimensiune 

Cândva, ma văd zburând...

În lumina palidă a nopții adânci,  

Moartea pășește cu pași tăcuți și blânzi.  

În tăcerea cea grea, clipa se oprește,  

Iar sufletul pleacă, către stele se trezește.  

În noaptea cea lungă, sub cerul senin,  

Moartea veghează, e un drum destin.  

Dar dincolo de ea, în lumea de sus,  

E o nouă lumină, un început frumos.  

În umbra tăcută a zorilor ce vin,  

Se naște speranța, un nou început senin.  

Moartea nu e sfârșitul, ci un nou început,  

Unde sufletul zboară liber, în cerul infinit.  

Singurel eu îmi duc soarta,

Fie ea bună sau rea,

Nu mă sprijin eu de nimeni,

Doar ca să obțin ceva.

Zile negre, zile albe,

La fel are orice om,

N-ai cum să alungi amarul,

N-ai fi tu vreun mare domn.

Îl primești fără să vrei,

Nu îi spui tu ce să facă,

El poftește, nu așteaptă,

Intră-n casă de îndată.

Că la orice om din lume,

Are ziua lui când vine,

Supărarea il mănâncă,

Plânsete și iar suspine.

Crucea asta, de lemn dur,

Putrezește într-o zi,

La fel la om inima,

Se oprește făr' să știi.

Făr' să știi ora și ziua,

Fără să îți dea vreun semn,

Încetează a mai bate,

Cum e putrezirea-n lemn.

Când va ciocăni la ușă

Plata vieții ce-ai avut,

Nu mai poți cere o altă,

Inimioară cu-mprumut.

Cât trăiești în astă viață,

Râde, bea, cântă, petrece,

Inimioara ce o ai

E gata oricând să plece.

Tre' să știi să iti duci of-ul,

Pentru viața asta seacă,

Care cum îi e norocul,

Tot vine nota de plată.

Viață, de ce superi omul?

De ce inima-i frămânți?

Cucuvea, tu ești nebună?

De ce ai început să cânți?

Daca soarele si luna sunt acelasi lucru ?

Daca atunci cand noaptea vine si toti merg sa se culce,

Soarele isi arata adevarata fata, care urla dupa ajutor,

Dar nimeni nu este acolo sa il auda ?

Soarele sufera, nimeni nu vede asta.

Dimineata isi pune un zambet mare, calduros,

Si ii face pe oameni sa se simta bine,

Asteptand sa il incalzeasca cineva si pe el.

Cand apune, se straduie sa faca cerul cat mai colorat

Ca sa ne incaleasca ochii artistici,

Si sa pastram o fotografie cu creatia lui,

Asteptand pe cineva care sa ii coloreze viata.

Soarele nu este simbolul fericirii.

Chiar daca e galben si  stralucitor

Cu mii si mii de raze si cu un zambet mare,

Soarele simbolizeaza cat de bine poate cineva sa ascunda suferinta.

Doar cadru mă mai ține

Mâinile-ncleștate, asta îmi aparține

Ploaie, se scurge din mine tot

Biletul spre sfârșit, un zgomot

Căci o să plec curând

Amintiri privind zărind

Grăbește-te, dacă-ai vrea să mă vezi

Dar tu nu-n cerca să mă salvezi

Nu spun când …sau cum

N-ai prea vrea să ști oricum

Trupul mie de piatră, cad în jos

Dar sufletu’ -i sticlos

Când o să mă înec,
n-am să disper.
Am să ies din colivie,
numai Dumnezeu o știe.
Vântul să adie,
ca o floare ce stă în tihnă,
să mă ia și să mă încânte,
fără să mă zvânte.
Pasărelele să-mi cânte,
după ele să mă avânt,
să mă pierd într-o livadă,
numai El să mă mai scoată.
O viață inventată,
sperând o nouă zi,
fără cântece,
doar spintece.
Recviem,
ce-mi doresc?
Lacătul ce-mi ține
viața pustie.