Sunt doar cărămizi şi pietre în oraşul interzis
Doar ziare aruncate, geamuri sparte, teatru-nchis
Nu răzbate nici un fir, iarba moarta se fumează
Sunt executaţi cocorii, asta nu interesează.


Ghemuite prin palate, gîndurile dorm şi dor
Mai tresare cîte unul, cocoţat pe un picior.
La tribună instalat se rosteşte-n microfoane,
Revoluţii adormite, revoluţii de butoane.


Minţile spălate astăzi, mîine sunt din nou murdare
De alegeri de cuvinte aruncate la-ntîmplare.
Purtători de coroniţe, pionieri de alta dată
Cîntă în democraţie astăzi. Melodia-i eronată.


Sclavii merg către uzine, în hipnoză şi delir
Nu mai sunt cocori nici iarbă, nici măcar un cimitir.
Indignată ploaia însăşi moare zi de zi mai mult
Unde să-şi atingă stropii, dacă nu avem pămînt?!


Iară eu privesc iubirea pentru cărămizi dresate
Să loveasca doar puterea, ba în piept sau chiar pe spate
Îmi ademenesc cuvîntul de sub gravul accident
Că oraşul interzis m-a trimis în Occident.

M-am pus singur pe gînduri de seară
Mă mut la oraş, plec de-aici la vară
În oraşul fantomă, corectat dintr-un vis
Fac mai mult decît artă, la oraş e permis.


Nu privesc nici în urmă, m-am tot dus
Dacă pică... bine. Dacă nu... la apus.
Mă încarc cu idei, îmi tocmesc revolte în cap
În oraşul în care martirii nu-ncap.


Mă răscol să mă lase-napoi acasă
Să mă plimb pe-o stradă, să joc pe masă
Să beau cu Miţa la bar un pahar de coniac
Să mă-nsor cu moartea şi copii să-i fac.


"Stai mă boule-acasă, revoltele trec"
Îmi spunea tata după băute, cu gîtul sec
"Moartea te-aşteaptă în pat dezbrăcată
Ce-ţi trebuie ţie oraş, dreptăţi şi-altă fată?"


"Vreau să ţip" i-am răspuns pus pe gînd
"În oraşul permis să mă lupt şi să cînt
Hai şi tu, ţipăm de nebuni, mîncăm gloanţe
Nu mai bem ca ţăranii, murim cu speranţe!"

Se năruişte Paradisul
Cu îngerii plezniţi şi-nsângeraţi
Iar norii părăsindu-şi visul
Cad peste noi înlăcrimaţi.

Se naruieşte şi iubirea
"Şi ce păcat că ai plecat"
Iar marea regăsindu-şi firea
Sirenele le-a înnecat.

Se năruieşte trandafirul
Mirosu-i greu de-adulmecat
Iar oamenii pierdut-au firul
Visărilor de corectat.

Se năruieşte şi cuvântul
Cu ce mai scriu eu poezii?
"Nu plânge", îmi răspunde vântul
"O să grăieşti în melodii".

Noi n-am avut un început ca orice altul
Ci ne-am trezit cu Dumnezeu la sfat
De-atunci învingem şi eternul şi neantul
Şi simfonia porcilor în ziua de Ignat.


Şi-apoi la zămislirea primei amintiri,
Portretul mamei de după naşteri resemnat
Cu ochii plânşi ne caută-n priviri:
"Prea mulţi copii, dar buni de adunat!"


Iar zilnic, tocmind casa memorială,
Îngrămădind în ea scrisori şi simfonii
Tot soi de începuturi ce fac alcătuială
La cartea noastră de vise şi stihii.


Noi n-am avut un început ci doar o parte
Sau două părţi dac-or mai fi.
Noi n-avem decât dragoste şi moarte
Şi porci martirizaţi pe simfonii.

În suflet o să-ţi construiesc o casă
 Să vezi şi tu cum e să vezi...
 Din propria-ţi fereastr-albastră,
 Cum e să crezi, cum e să pierzi.

 În suflet o să-ţi construiesc o scară
 Şi de te urci pe ea în vârf de tot
 Să vezi cum mă prefac deseară
 În lacrimă de dor, dacă mai pot.

 În suflet am să-ţi construiesc şi o grădină
 Te plimbi în ea pân'-la apus
 Şi tolănită-n mine şi-n lumină
 Admira-ţi casa de mai sus.

Mănînc din mîna mamei, numai pîine
Căuş făcut din palme, apă am băut
Fiindcă este ea, am ieri şi azi şi mîine
Am mîini şi cap, sfîrşit şi început.

Iar laptele ce gustu-i şters din amitire
Îl beau mereu ca pe-un izvor de catifea
Noi toţi plecaţi acum din lămurire
Ne întrebăm: ce face mama mea?

Păi, ce să facă? Aşteptîndă-n poartă
Cu păru-i suspinînd de dorul meu
Cu mîinile căuş de lapte şi de soartă
M-aşteaptă de pe drumuri mai mereu.

Iar dacă ochiul sprîncenat mai aţipeşte
Tot eu sunt gîndul visurilor ei
Tot eu sunt cel ce o trezeşte
Cînd somnul vrînd-nevrînd i-l iei.

Şi mamă, dacă mă mai naşti odată
Eu vreau sa fii tot mama mea
Cu-aceeaşi mînă de dureri şi soartă
Cu laptele în rîu de catifea.

Sunt trist ca o planetă aruncată-n Univers
Şi nedescoperită
Ca un cuvînt greşit în strofă sau în vers
Precum o carte infinită.

Sunt trist ca mîna care scrie fără ea
Cu sînge
Precum un val de flăcări şi de catifea
Ca îngerul ce plînge.

Sunt trist că nu mai ştiu să rîd de mine
Să zîmbesc
Că numai inima tăinuitor mă ţine
Cînd scriu şi cînd iubesc.

Ma oboseşte moartea
Moartea care nu mai vine
Învăluită-n lacrimi şi suspine...



Mă duc la cimitir să plîng
Pe ce-am pierdut să reînvie
Pe moartea mea cea timpurie



Mă duc să-nvăţ să cînt
Să plîng de învăţat de ani
Să mă prefac că tac pe bani



Mă oboseşte moartea
Lividă în culori de mai
De ce nu stai... de ce mai stai?

Barba Giovanni And The Sausage

Who would have thought that in Greci the Christmas was silent? My father was hidden in the last room of the house and he was covering his ears. My uncle and Barba Giovanni needed to kill the pig, chasing it around the garden along with our dogs. It was like a hunting feast in a much smaller universe. There were hundreds of pigs in the village gathered around in a concert of pain. The only day when my father was suffering as well. He would have never let us see his tears for the pig.

It is so cold outside. The trees are covered in ice. It feels like I am living in a world of frozen glass. I am curious about the hunting. I never saw it before but this time I am outside alone looking horrified at how the hunter slaughtered the poor creature. All that immense white for an instant has a hint of colour. The blood was spread all over the garden and in a moment the suffering was released and the concert was ended. It is again silent. My father is out from the house asking for a glass of grappa:

- Go and bring the shit from the basement, then take the bread card and buy the bread.

Although our kitchen was extremely simple, I really cannot find certain things. The bread card was a piece of paper like a small calendar encrypted with the number of the family members and the amount of bread you could buy in each day. I found it and I go to the bakery. There was a crowd of children every day in front of the bakery, waiting for the obligatory 200 grams, the maximum quanitity you could acquire for each person. Sometimes we fight for the place in the queue. I lose every time. My shoes are full of cold water. They are peiced becasue I wear them all the time. My hands are stuck to the bag and I can feel ice forming inside my nostrils. I never had a scarf. So I cannot fight anymore and I am waiting quietly for the last piece of bread that I can buy. I am looking up. The sky is aslo like glass. I have never seen it as clean and as deep. In the corner of the street, like a geyser, a red line of stars is jumping noisely into the horizon. All the eyes were pointing in that direction because this kind of image can only be seen on the National Day or on New Year's Eve. Can it be a firework? No. This time it is something new and dangerous. Everybody runs into the houses but I am not losing my place in the queue. If I am going back home without bread, I will be punished. But even so, the baker closed his shop and I have no choice but to return back home empty handed.

It is very difficult to walk home in winter adn on that day, it took an eternity. Every second in every corner of the village, I could hear a scream of a woman or of a child, restoring in this way that painful concert. But it was a human one this time. I could see my mother waiting for me at the door of our house. She is crying:

- Come quickly. Take your sisters and go immediately to the basement. Do not whisper a word.

- But mum, it is already much too cold in the basement. What am I going to cover Geo with and why are we going in the basement? The baker closed and it is not my fault, thinking that I am being punished for coming home without any bread.

- Shut up and do exactly what I told you. Your father and I will be there soon.

I enter the house to take my sisters. My family was gathered around the dead pig in our kitchen and Barba Giovanni tried to explain what was happening. God himself ran away in a helicopter from the central community building in Bucharest. The Father of the nation, the national hero, the commerade was hunted like a pig by the people that he starved in the last 25 years. Communist security opened fire against the people all over the country everywhere. Now I understand that the firework was not a firework but a river of bullets from automatic guns:

- Why did you not send them down, says Barba Giovanni to my mother. Today we are not making sausages anymore.

- Go now, says my mum full of anger.

I an taking a blanket, putting my sister in it, covering her well and along with my other 2 sisters, we descend to the basement. We are quiet:

- Hold her for a while and do not say anything. I am going out to see what is happening. I leave my baby sister in the hands of the oldest one. I open the small window of the basement and squeeze through it. I have my caterpult with me. I pick up some small rocks from the ground, place them in my pockets and run from the back yard into the street. On the way to the town hall I meet my best mates Dan , Vicky, Bep and Cesar:

- What in the name of God is happening?

- Who knows, The commerade was put down...

- Did somebody go to the town hall?

I feel like making my own revolution. I am going to destroy the portrait of the dictator with my caterpult, that icon who watched us every second of our lives and who we feared so much since the day that we were born. I will be proud to do it. I am standing here in front of it, looking at it with hatred:

- Don't do it. If he is not going to die.

- I am going to do it for not yet eating a sausage in my life, for being punished when I did not return home with bread and for those shoes with water in them.

The sound of the broken glass entered so deep in to my heart as I really felt that my own war against Ceausescu succeeded. I was so happy but I wished to cry, starved frozen but a real hero.

Barba Givanni was the sausage maker of the village. He has his own old italian traditional recipe: pork, a bit of beef, a sauce with garlic and a drop of red wine, all that in pure interstines. His sausages remained fresh from one Christmas to the next. Unfortunately, we were not allowed to eat them. Except for my father. This year was supposed to be our first sausage year as the pig was really big. It grew as though it knew that we would be released from that blind hunger in which we lived for all our lives.

It's been a year my love
And that's the last for me
of sky-demolished thoughts and longing ...
Now I'free
But what do you know? Think of!
Unexplained birds gathering today
Traveling over the rainbow
Holding my smile
It is the day I dies.
But where are you?
Get out of the ground
with the edges of windows arround
Get closer and let them cry
Thouse rose petals broke
rolled through your cold fingers and why?
Lean
And pick them to wake u! Rain ...
Is full of pain
Spoiling the earth separations
in crying and in awe
But what do you know? Ther is no other me!
Free deceptive perceptions.
A year passed and I did nothing
I thought about the anger of poetry
of the rising sun and the sea
I've turned into a bitter dwarf in question of anything.
But what do you know beautiful delight
Have a bit of patience.
Get back to me breaking into my bones
Lying eyes with tangues
Concealment
What kept me alive but abandoned my homes.
It's been a year and a day
in May.
That day the times Discovered unlocked
roofs of houses
collapsed. So many spouses
And oh ...
God left me here with this odious
Magical turmoil and fears It's glorious
steep gnarled leaven in me and bothers me
I tell you: that dreams of heaven are conceived,
they came here and grieved
But what do you know? Stay and hear me whisper
light the night as my muse. It's crisper
May, last year,
the year without me
Without love
Without fake precipices,
without girlfriends Without words,
without blood-veins
without rains.
It went at once to pass the rose pensively
A bird creature unexplained
and stolen from this wonderful skies, constantly.
God gave me a star to ride
I invite you for coffee inthere
misconstrued as a question but you know,
vicious, sinister attempt, you're nowhere!