- Poteca aceasta duce spre pajiste.In maracinis,cerul pare acoperit.Aerul a devenit o povara mult prea grea,si as vrea sa ma asez pe o buturuga.Cu palmele ranite de spinii din maracini,ating usor fire de iarba,ascunse de paienjenisul crengilor uscate,ca niste brate increstate,vremelnice semne ale Anotimpurilor.Bulgari de pamant reavan,cuceritoare boltiri ale tenebrelor in ascunzis,se sfarma sub pasii mei,ca fosnetul frunzelor cazute printre copaci.Pe drumul spre pajiste,se aude cantecul incetinit al greierului,si nechezatul cailor,care cauta cu narile frematand de placere,parfumul florilor ascunse in buchetul firelor de iarba.In zbor,aripile insectelor,ca si clipele,lasa urme de pulbere stelara,un parfum racoros,efemer.Cu umerii intorsi spre Padure,aud pasii sovaitori,ca de naluca,ai Fiarei,care ma urmareste,ascunzandu-se printre maracini,dorind sa-mi smulga din inima Mostenirea.Ca un ucenic ostenit,caut geana de lumina,sa potrivesc tainicele chemari din Adanc.Ca intr-o vraja a trecerii,adun vreascuri uscate,fosnind duios si-ncetinit,ca pasii unui copil pierdut pe drum,privind jucariile din vitrina unui magazin.Si,parca n-as mai pleca,parca n-as sta.Adun vreascuri uscate,fosnind duios si-ncetinit,cazute in locul de unde o vrabiuta a tasnit,ca o speranta,cautand,in zbor rotit,lumina de la capatul potecii.
- The trail leads to the meadow.In briers,the sky seems covered.The air has become a burden too heavy,and I want to sit on a stump.With hands hurt by thorns of thistles,flick blades of grass,hidden in cobwebs dry branches,like arms thriving,temporary signs of the seasons.Moist clods,arching charming of darkness in hiding,it breaks under my steps,like rustling of leaves fallen trees.On the way to meadow,heard the crickets song slowed down,and horses neigh,looking with nostrils flickering of pleasure,fragrance of flowers,hidden in the grass.In flight,wings of insects,like the moments,leaving traces by star dust,cool perfume,ephemeral.With shoulders return to Forest hear wavering steps,as ghost of the Beast,who following me,hiding amond the thistles,wanting to grab from my heart,heritage.As a tired apprentice,looking eyelash light,to match the mysterious call of the Deep.As a spell of passing,gather dry twigs,rustling sweet and slowed,like steps of a child lost on the road,the toys in a shop window.And,though I would not go,though I would stay.Gather dry twigs,rustling sweet and slowed,hanging in the place when a sparrow has sprung,like a hope,looking-in rotated flight,the light at the end of trail.
