Alter Ego III. Eu, dincolo de oglindă

Plâng cu lacrimi de vorbe și îi scald pe mulți în ele, așsa cum eu mă scald în timp.
Șoptesc priviri neînțelese... netălmacite și pierdute.
Mă exteriorizez prin îmbujorări.
Iriși ciocolatii de tristețe sunt zid între sufletul meu și ei.
Apoi verzi ca iarba verii mă unesc de cer, formând orizontul într-un zâmbet.
Numai tu mă înțelegi deplin, natură.
Ia-mi gândurile și dă-le vântului, să le elibereze măcar pe ele...
Păr negru de abanos curge peste umeri dezgoliți, undându-i.
Apoi vântul îl arată roșcat soarelui.
Și iarăși negru, udat de întuneric.


Se usucă frunzele și nimic nu le mai ține departe de vânt.
Pleacă într-o călătorie eternă - o libertate visată în veci.
Așa și păsările au plecat, așa și astrele mă uită cînd eu mi le-am pictat pe inimă, de neșters.
E-o dezolare și o jale a naturii muribunde ce mă cuprind și mă îneacă încet.
Natura e ca un Phoenix. Mereu reînviată din propria-i moarte.
Dar fiecare moarte lasă urme ce nu dispar și care dor.
Și-i trist.

Vanatoare

Pe panza neagra crapata pe ici, pe colo, se intrezaresc mici pete albe.
Nu e Luna.
Pe intunecime se profileaza chiar mai neagra decat smoala, o stanca ce rasare semet dintre brazii padurii asternute la poalele imensei pietre ce domina imprejurimile.
Solemnitatea e sufocanta in atmosfera nocturna ; nici vantul nu o tulbura, nu se strecoara printre brazi sfios, cum obisnuieste in nopti ca acestea, nici violent, vrand sa smulga arborii din sol, refuzand vehement faptul ca ei sunt mai rezistenti ca el... E incremenit totul intr-o liniste asurzitoare si intr-o nemiscare inselatoare. Nici stelele nu indraznesc sa mai luceasca.
Si totusi, de undeva din intuneric, rasare o fantoma ce urca fugind stanca, ajungand in varful ei si urland, urland cu tot sufletul, cu toata viata, ca si cum acel urlet ar fi putut chema spirite sa i se alature in aventura ca avea sa urmeze. De undeva din departari i se raspunde cu un alt urlet, ce suna ca acou al primului, dar nu e, caci altele ii urmeaza cu aceeasi intensitate si infocare.
Dar nu e Luna.
Fantasma de pe stanca dispare la fel de repede cum a aparut, topindu-se alba in densitatea neagra, trecand ca un vis si lasand in urma doar o amintire a aparitiei sale si a urletului, poate inca purtat pe undeva de vantul care a prins curaj.
Jos, in padure, fosnesc tufisurile usor, miscate de umbre negre ca moartea insasi ce se fug silentios printre brazii care tremura infricosati... Oare ce-i? E ca si cum noaptea insasi s-ar fi pogorat pe pamant, strecurandu-se agil printre plante, nefacand niciun sunet, lasand doar o urma de mister in locurile parcurse si nimic mai mult.
Incet se aduna toti in jurul fanomei albe ca cea mai pura nea, care acum, in mijlocul intunecimii vii ce maraie cu nerabdare si o inconjoara, pare un inger, lumina divina venita o data cu noaptea.
E ca o Luna pamanteana.
Luna isi arata coltii ascutiti si ingalbeniti de sangele ce-l supse din gatlejurile atator animale, aratandu-si astfel superioritatea. Lingandu-se pe botul inca incretit de gest, se aseaza pe labele de dinapoi, ridicand capul spre cer si urland din nou cu toata vlaga.
Dar nu e Luna.
Ii raspund o mie de glasuri la fel ; apoi umbrele se intorc si o iau la fuga printre brazi, purtand cu ele gestul fantomei - un bot incretit de marait, arantandu-si coltii taiosi in toata splendoarea, ca un avertisment.
Dar Luna mai sta, privind spre ei, obosita o clipa. Insa viata, pe care parca o aruncase spre cer si lume cu primul urlet, ii revine, o data cu toata vlaga ; si pleaca fugind.
Prinde incet din urma umbrele sale supuse. Pandesc, printre copaci, un cerb ce paste-ntr-o poienita.
Fantasma sta, privind atent, cu coada sus si urechile ciulite... Se linge iar pe bot, simtind deja gustul sangelui cald si al carnii proaspete...
O umbra incearca sa inainteze, dar Luna se uita la ea si inaintarea inceteaza. Acum nu poate ataca - linistea trebuie sa fie deplina, netulburata.
Adulmeca. E imbatata de mirosul prazii.
Cerbul se sperie de un fosnet o clipa, privind in directia lor. Luna se sperie si ea - daca ii scapa? Dar nu, nu, animalul uita de spaima trecuta si continua sa rupa iarba...
Acum e momentul.
Ea sare prima din intunericul viu, ca un fulger dintre norii de ploaie si cade asupra cerbului.
Dar animalul o simte - nu pe ea, infingandu-si coltii, ci spaima, chiar cu o fractiune de secunda inainte se ii rupa jugulara, si se intoarce, aparandu-se cu coarnele si agatand-o in ele, apoi aruncand-o cat colo.
Dar ea nu se lasa. Iar acum vin si umbrele mortii ce-l paste pe cerb, inconjurandu-l din toate partile. Stie ca e pierdut, dar se lupta vitejeste.
Si simte, simte colti in spate si-n picioare, sangele siroindu-i pe blana, durerea ; aude urletele si schelalaiturile lor atunci cand ii loveste si loveste si mai tare...
Luna priveste doar, atenta. Nu ii mai pasa.
Sau da?
Acum.
Sare.
Se agata maraind de gatul cerbului si il musca cu toata forta.
Izvorul rubiniu nu ezita sa apara, insotit de ultimele gemete morbide ale animalului rapus ce cade peste ea, zdrobind-o...
Dar nu da drumul. E prada ei si victoria ei.
Botul alb se inroseste, iar coltii-i devin si mai galbeni, patati de inca un omor - inca un succes.
Inima i se opreste imbatata de sangele proaspat.
Rasare Luna...

Noapte de iarnă

Îți urez pentru ultima oară "Noapte bună!"
Sau cel puțin asta aș vrea să fac.
Însă, privind în sus pe cer la lună
Înghit cuvintele, greu, și tac.

Îmi mușc buzele tremurânde
Și nu vreau decât să nu-mi mai fie frică.
Îmi închid încet genele plăpânde
Rugându-mă să nu pățesc nimică.

Simt gustul amar al sângelui cald în gură
Și-l înghit cu sete de vampir
Deschid ochii și mi-i arunc spre lună
Ce-și varsă lumina pe cimitir.

Aș vrea și să nu-mi mai fie frig ;
E-atât de rece încât zăpada-mi pare caldă.
Căzută, în soapte surde gem și strig
Privind cum însangerez zăpada.

Dar ce rost are să mai plâng?
M-aplec încet și sărut omătul
Iar mâinile reci la piept mi le strâng
Așteptând să se rupă sărutul.

Și-ncet mă albesc precum neaua
Și-urez lumii "Noapte bună!".
Privesc cum încet mi-apune steaua
Și-adorm pe zăpada sângerandă...

Alter Ego II. Self-love

The only dance I know is running. The only tears I shed are pure ice. I do not believe in the existence of love and when told that it's real I object. I know I'm right. I'm always right. I reached a certain level of maturity and intelligence that cannot be reached by many. I observe - I look at the world and what it is made of. I know it very well, maybe too well. I know its people. They are all soulless and fake and hypocrite. None of them is sincere. And all in all, why would they be? The truth not only hurts, but it also takes away a great deal of money and success, and that's what people are after. So why tell the truth?
I seldom take part in this world, though I live in it. But when I do, I'm just like the others - a liar, a tool in the hands of hypocrisy and an atheist. I cannot stand this filthy prison filled with always happy people who belong to the finest society, or the ones who do nothing but beg for money.
I absolutely despise both of them for they're both stealing money - one way or another. And all trough lies! And yes, I know how to notice the lies. In fact, I know it so well that it's become something easy for me. I look at the rich people who try to convince themselves that they are some kind of gods ; I look at the poor people who do nothing for themselves and prefer to beg. I loathe them. I loathe them all.


The only dance I know is running. Running alongside with love - yes, love! What can be purer that perfection? And this is perfection! It feels as if it's alive, for I feel it, and not only me. How can one not believe in it? How can some not believe in God, when God gave us love? Only by feeling the warmth of the sun that inner peace takes over... It's real. I know it's real.
What would our world be without the truth? It hurts, of course it hurts... But still, it is the one thing that can heal wounds and provide justice. Without the truth, our souls may never be at peace.
I love this world in which I live. I love the fresh morning air and summer nights spent on a green field. I love to be a happy person by doing things that please me - reading, especially. A high level of culture is needed in my life - my soul demands it. I love to laugh and to breathe. I love to love.
Alas, this is perfection!

Alter Ego

The only dance I know is running.
Aș vrea să fug, să mă pierd într-un orizont de amintiri și gânduri.
I love how the wind strokes my hair.
Să fug spre un apus de memorie, să întind mâna pentru a prinde soarele muribund...
Sometimes I run through fog... and darkness.
Dar nu pot prinde soarele... Dispare înainte să-l ajung și mă agăț cu disperare de o ultimă rază.
And the clouds above me suddenly cry with icy tears.
Raza caldă îmi alunecă din mână și simt în schimb...nimic.
So I stop, frightened.
Privesc noaptea cum alungă lumina și cum stelele sunt singurele ce reușesc să pătrundă prin pânza de întuneric.
It feels like terror's pulsing through my veins instead of blood.
Nu înșeleg acest frig întunecat și infinit.
I think I could throw up my fear, or cry it with silence.
Îmi vreau soarele inapoi, încerc să-l chem dar înteleg cu greu că e mort într-adevăr.
I faint...
Cad în genunchi și murmur o rugă fără înteles ce nu o adresez nimănui.

It's a strange feeling to open up your eyes and to realize that the darkness around you is not cold, to realize this : Nimic n-a fost real din acel vis, din acea nebunie a unui suflet pierdut!...

Life-Afterlife

I only need to run.
I have to run, otherwise I will die, most likely of terror. I have to reach it...the only place where I feel safe ; the only place where I can hide in darkness, knowing that no monster lurks there...
I do feel guilty as I run beneath the watchful eyes of the moon and stars ; they seem to say "It was your fault!". But it wasn't...I know that very well.
The roots of an old tree suddenly appear blacker that the night itself in front of me and I stumble and fall on the ground. I wish it were soft... Nevertheless, it is much more softer that the memories from which I run.
I thank God for the trees' shelter, for their branches covered with leaves hide me from the punishing sky. Even so, I'm still scared... It seems like fear is the wolf behind me and I am the hunted and haunted lost sheep.
But I finally reach the place I was going to - the Gothic church, the church that has been abandoned maybe centuries ago, the church who, just like me, was hidden by the welcoming woods. I lean myself against a wall and rest for a moment. Running can be so tiring. After a short glance at the moon and after casting the whispered words "Not me..." to the chilly wind, I go inside.
Some candles were lit inside, so it's not dark. I can see the altar clearly... Maybe to clearly. For some reason, the saints painted there seem to look at me like the moon and stars do. But it's not my fault... I haven't done anything. I can't even remember my name!
My name...
So many times I looked at these cold stone walls and saw the name Mary written on them...in blood. But it meant nothing to me, it didn't scare me. Only a blurry memory crossed my mind each time I read it, but only for a moment - then it vanished.
Yet this night I was looking for something. I don't know what, but it meant everything to me. My life, my soul, everything. Therefore I wandered in the silent church for hours, myself not making any sound at all. At some point in my research, I found a door in the floor... I opened it and it revealed some stairs that led into darkness. I wanted to take a candle with me, but each time I was reaching out for one...the light went out. I couldn't touch any of them.
Still, I went down into the depths of that darkness.
I found myself into a room ; there was light, but I could not see its source. Yet not that was important to me, but the grave stone that was lying on the floor, hiding...who knows what? A skeleton maybe, or a fresh corpse...
I bent down to read what was written there and I saw the name Mary.
My name.
Suddenly, it all came crushing down on me. Everything that happened in my past. I remembered how mother used to take me with her at this church on Sundays, how father played with me, how I was riding a horse, how I was reading, how I was learning so many things I can't even count them...
I remember how it was to breath. To cry. To laugh. To feel my life beating in my chest.
And, oh dear! I remember that I was ill and lying in my warm bed and everyone took very, very good care of me. But the fever and the sickness wouldn't go away... I grew weaker and weaker and I know that one day they dressed me in the same black dress I was wearing at this very moment. I hear somebody whisper "It's no use...poor thing, she'll soon be gone.". After that, I closed my eyes and fell asleep, but I woke up immediately after seeing nothing but black.
I was standing by my bed, looking down at those who surrounded my bed, all of them crying and covering whatever there was lying there and I could not see. I tried to talk to them - they would only ignore my voice. I followed them everywhere they went.
In the same day a coffin was brought in the house and a dead body was lied there carefully. I tried to see who had fallen into eternal sleep, but I couldn't - the dead one's face was covered. I wondered who it was and why nobody gave any attention to me anymore. I didn't understand.
The next day the coffin was taken at this church. I went as well, for I felt that whoever was dead it meant everything to me. Soon, it all ended...
I tried to go back home but I found I couldn't get away from the church. I was stuck there.
So I tried to ask the priests what was happening, but none of them would respond - they all made a scared face and walked away terrified.
One night I heard them talking, their voice no louder than a whisper. They said the church was haunted and they had to leave it at once.
Haunted? I didn't sense any strange cold presence...
But now, kneeling at my very own grave, I understood everything.
I want to take a look at myself... How do I look after all this time? I only need to bend more...approach the gravestone somehow...
I'm falling into darkness and I scream but no one hear the silence at throw at the darkness. I fall upon my skeleton, who is wearing the same dress as I do. Dear Lord! It's empty orbits seem so alive, they seem to blame me as well for what? I do not know. And it's white teeth seem to smile wickedly at me, an evil smile... I can even hear the laughter the skull throws at me. Its hands of bone reach for me and they catch me. It slowly drags me into it... Death drags me into another death...
But I wake up in front of the church. It's dawning. The sun's warm razes of light are now touching me... I can feel them. I can feel the wet grass...
Not wanting to know what had happened, I sit up and slowly walk away, with the wind at my side...

Apus

Priveam apusul soarelui
In marea de cristal ce-l oglindea.
Razele lui ca suliti de lumina
Se pierdeau in ea.
Culori calde se imbinau cu cele reci.
Albastrul noptii le invaluia cu intuneric
Si cu stele de argint. Scoicile ceresti.
Aceeasi lume salasluia si in mare, si in cer.
Aceleasi scoici. Acelasi umed aer.
Cu privirea plecata spre apa, priveam luna
Ascunsa printre valurile inspumate.
Ma intrebam daca pot s-o iau cu mana
Si s-o arunc inapoi cerului.
Dar privind in sus, iat-o, acolo era
Cu stele dasand in juru-i.
Stralucea si ea asemeni argintului,
Inecandu-se in valurile de-ntuneric uscat
Asa cum soarele muri stins de apa noptii.