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Cdan
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“For we are like tree trunks in the snow. In appearance they lie smoothly and a little push should be enough to set them rolling. No, it can't be done, for they are firmly wedded to the ground. But see, even that is only appearance.”
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“Am lunecat. M-am poticnit, strivind
Sub tălpi o floare ori o cochilie,
Ori poate mi-am strivit fără să simt
Inima mea, în piept ascunsă, vie...
N-am să mai spun ce am greșit și cînd...
Vreau soarele-amintirile să-mi spele...
Un egoism îngrozitor de strîmt
M-a coborît în ochii lumii mele.”
― Albatrosul ucis
Sub tălpi o floare ori o cochilie,
Ori poate mi-am strivit fără să simt
Inima mea, în piept ascunsă, vie...
N-am să mai spun ce am greșit și cînd...
Vreau soarele-amintirile să-mi spele...
Un egoism îngrozitor de strîmt
M-a coborît în ochii lumii mele.”
― Albatrosul ucis
“You look at me, you look at me closely, each time closer and then we play cyclops, we look at each other closer each time and our eyes grow, they grow closer, they overlap and the cyclops look at each other, breathing confusion, their mouths find each other and fight warmly, biting with their lips, resting their tongues lightly on their teeth, playing in their caverns where the heavy air comes and goes with the scent of an old perfume and silence. Then my hands want to hide in your hair, slowly stroke the depth of your hair while we kiss with mouths full of flowers or fish, of living movements, of dark fragrance. And if we bite each other, the pain is sweet, and if we drown in a short and terrible surge of breath, that instant death is beauty. And there is a single saliva and a single flavour of ripe fruit, and I can feel you shiver against me like a moon on the water.”
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“In an isolated region from Iran there is this wall tower, windowless, doorless, not very tall. In its only room with arched walls and the stamped earth as its floor, there’s a wooden table and a bench. In this round cell a man that looks like me is writing in signs that i don’t understand a long poem about a man who in another round cell is writing a poem about a man in another round cell. Endless series; nobody will ever read what prisoners write. ”
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