in between… – tra… – între… (reblog: from Valeriu D.G. Barbu)

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May 29 by The Running Son

Poem by Valeriu D.G. Barbu.

valeriu dg barbu

Trilingual text

Image

I am throwing all the clocks in the washer, in the centrifuge
I squeeze the little bit of happiness from the un-ticked seconds on clock faces, I don’t go out
I don’t go out, I don’t go there, where not long from now
I won’t be able to find even a spot of soil
Spared from reinforced concrete
Without a doubt the vegetation will only grow suspended in the air
And all the living creatures will have to have wings
I don’t go inside either, no, those who inhabit me
Are too much into dogmas and they count their inner scars
And muzzle their hearts thinking that love bites and hurts anything it comes across in its path
You find me sitting in between, on the edge of the eye sockets,
Entrances to caves apparently too deep
My feet dangling in the air, kicking cheeks unseen by mirrors

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RFB editor Jim Aldrich, Joshua Tree CA 2013

RunningSon aka Jim Aldrich, Joshua Tree CA 2013 | This site is dedicated with the deepest gratitude to Dr. Cláudio Naranjo, whose writings gave me life.

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