Articole

Cele mai frumoase… Scrisori către Isolda

          II

                                                                     mi-am cumpărat

                                                                    o singurătate perfectă

                                                                     într-un oraş

                                                                     anonim

                                                                     locuiesc confortabil

                                                                     printre iluzii deşarte

                                                                     flori şi

                                                                     cenuşă

                                                                     am coşmaruri frumoase

                                                                     (dacă vreodată

                                                                      adorm)

                                                                      noaptea-şi aruncă ciorapii

                                                                      eu aştept

                                                                      să

                                                                      îmi scrii

                                                                      la calendele greceşti

V

                                                                          în dreptul

                                                                          arterei aorte

                                                                          este ea

                                                                          iarăşi iarna

                                                                          visându-mi visele

                                                                          trăieşte

                                                                          în locul meu

                                                                          vino

                                                                          de la polul

                                                                          tău nord

                                                                          nu mai rătăci

                                                                          din odaie-n odaie

                                                                          prin castelul de vânt

                                                                          e atât de pustiu

                                                                          pe plaja norilor…

                                                                          ştii?

                                                                          o duc

                                                                          şi mai bine

                                                                          am buzunare pline

                                                                          de păianjeni

                                                                          şi sunt bogat

                                                                          de-atâta sărăcie

                                                                          ninge besmetic

                                                                          în odaia mea

                                                                          confort unu a

                                                                          noaptea-mi pătrunde în sânge

                                                                          ca o iubită

                                                                          în aşternut

VII

                                                                        ninge

                                                            şi n-are decât

                                                                        oraşul e altfel

                                                                        mai trist mai sărac

                                                                        vom primi supliment

                                                                        la orez

                                                                        din înalt

                                                                        vor cădea portocale

                                                                        încă mai ştiu

                                                                        să visez

                                                                        ce-aş putea

                                                                        să-ţi mai spun?

                                                                        mă doare

                                                                        până şi gândul

                                                                        că nu vei veni

                                                                        jumătate în alb

                                                                        jumătate în

                                                                        negru

                                                                        să vezi să auzi

                                                                        gâlgâind vinul vechi

                                                                        în pahare aprinse

                                                                        singur

                                                                        de tine

                                                                        voi bea gândindu-mă

                                                                        la noaptea

                                                                        dictatorului

                                                                       XV

                                                                        vin

                                                                        vremuri furajere

                                                                       aproape frumos

                                                                       ca o mascaradă

                                                                       aştept

                                                                       pe corabia

                                                                       fără pânze

                                                                       au

                                                                       majorat

                                                                       iernile

                                                                       mă vei ierta?

                                                                       nu pot

                                                                       să scriu

                                                                       iubire

                                                                       o lacrimă

                                                                       urcă pe cer

    XVIII

                                                                         de dorul tău

                                                                          se face

                                                                          toamnă

                                                                          privirea cade

                                                                          în genunchi

                                                                          o burniţă

                                                                          neagră

                                                                          se revarsă-n

                                                                          oraş

                                                                          îngropând

                                                                          zorile

                                                                          departe

                                                                          în fluvii albastre

                                                                          sângele meu

                                                                          valsează

XXI

                                                                         în faţa mării

                                                                         părăsită de

                                                                         valuri

                                                                         cântecul de sirenă

                                                                         al amintirii

                                                                         ochiul

                                                                         meu sângerează

                                                                         în zare uitat

                                                                         din

                                                                         ţara lui

                                                                         nimeni-nu-ştie

                                                                         tu

                                                                         vei veni

                                                                         la fel ca

                                                                         nealtădată

XXVI

                                                                         din mine nu

                                                                          mai poţi

                                                                          pleca

                                                                          oricât de mult

                                                                          mi-aş rătăci

                                                                          dorinţa

                                                                          sunt prea bolnav

                                                                          de veacul

                                                                          ieftin

                                                                          şi prea sătul

                                                                          de artificii

                                                                          preaveşnic adorato

                                                                          cu părul tău

                                                                          de aur

                                                                          veşted

                                                                          înlănţuie

                                                                        –  măcar o dată  –

                                                                         depărtarea

XXIX

                                                                    din negura

                                                                    albastrului de ieri

                                                                     aş vrea

                                                                     să te desprinzi

                                                                     o clipă

                                                                     înveşmântaţi

                                                                     de albe ploi

                                                                     să facem iar

                                                                     de noi

                                                                     risipă

                                                                     e

                                                                     cântec de furtună

                                                                     pe ţărmul

                                                                     de lumină

                                                                     nu

                                                                     mai vii

                                                                     cu ale tale

                                                                     plete înstelate

                                                                     în urma mea

                                                                     rămâi

XXXI

                                                                    mereu

mă mint

       că mai exişti

           înnourata mea

                                                                      iubire

              şuieră vântul alb

        galbene trec

corăbii

    de frunze

                                                                     plouă

          cu strigătul tău

       peste noapte

LVIII

de

părul tău

ca razele de

soare

de

ochii tăi

ca de seninul

cer

în toamna mohorâtă

de

trandafirul buzelor

în veci aprins

de

glasul blând

ca sunetul de harpă

de

mâna răcoroasă

ce vindecă otrăvuri

și-alungă suferinți

nespus

de mult

cumplit

mi-e dor…

LXI

                                                                încercănate

                                                                 nopțile aduc

            doar insomnii fierbinți

                                                                stelele

   tot mai stingher

                                                                apun în

                                                                artere

        afară zorile zâmbesc

                                                               din vitrinele

                                                               cerului

                                                               se mai aud

                                                               pașii tăi

                                                               fredonând

                                                              pe aleile

                                                              inimii

ISOLDEI (CU MÂINILE ALBE)

                                                                  vin anii

  ca ploile trec

                                                                  des-

         fac geamantanul

uit să mai

                                                                   plec

   răsună vioara

   acordul e sec

                                                                  în lume

cade toamna

e-al frunzelor

înec

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