environmental math

i fear my friends
we have an ill posed problem to solve
and while we cannot really measure it well
there is not anymore enough love in the world.
just think in terms of it being like water
there is only so much to go around
and we are growing in numbers
we will just have to purify and to share

energy drain

please take it away
take the peaks of the noise
the edge of the blows
extinguish for a while
the fire at the tips
of these fingers

let some of the energy drain
on the dance floor,
on the pavement
on the ocean wave
take some away
for those in need
we'll give the sweat
of our palms
the song in our voice
and mostly for those
we truly love
a patch from
the tapestry of a dream

we welcomed it within
and we gladly let out
this breath that keeps us alive
we move from inside
to the edge of the universe
vibrating right back
the stories of the night
shall commence
their aerial dance

sedona

the sun set the stones on fire
they baked in front of his fury for ages
they patiently bended his anger
till the calmer days came;
the wind blew hard his lungs out
strong as the need for change in spring
unwillingly he peeled the fragile layer
of plants when he did so;
but they waited unclothed for warmer days;
the rain washed the composting remnants
in her attempt to forget the thirst of the summer,
and left them looking like new

and now they just lie, with their rounded backs
their bones strong, and somehow still ready to crumble
the unnecessary bits if one of the Gods demand sacrifice
pure, and red, and barren for most
awaiting whatever elements come their way
with the forehead up high, facing the sun
the rocks of Sedona

resilient like the prayer of an old man
fresh like the hope of a child
beautiful like adolescents
ageless they seem
the red rocks of Sedona

The soul of the village
 Lucian Blaga

Girl, put your hands on my knees
I think eternity was born in the village
Here all thoughts are slower
And your heart pumps more seldom
As if it were not beating within your chest,
But deep down underground.
Here can be healed the thirst for redemption
And if your feet are bleeding
Just sit on humid ground.
Now that the evening comes
The soul of the village flies nearby
Like the aroma of freshly cut grass
Like smoke rising from the straw roofs
Like a dance of young animals on high tombs.

translated from Romanian by Alexandra Badea

magic morning

magic morning on Erwin
when the icy sheet sublimates
to let the giant's breaths rise
towards the morning sun
through the pores in the ground
from the place where he sleeps

the morning started with
funnels of dancing mist
gently twirling in the sun
to the happy music brought about
when springs bursts through
the gates of winter with her laugh

lift your eyes
from the ground to the sky
switch palettes from brown to blue
and then again, from yellow to green
when the cover of his bed he changes
the giant called Erwin

Two of Ana's wishes:

1. ride dragons
2. go in outer space, where there is 0 gravity.

the moon's negligence

the moon lies down her bedsheets
on my lawn sometimes;
i know because it the morning
i can gather the stars
that dropped of her hair
as she combed it at sunrise;
i gather the stars - always a little too late;
being afraid to wake up crickets and birds,
and the stars that remain are invariably
turned into dew drops jewels or margarets.
switch off the lights and welcome the moon
to lay down her silky white sheets
in your gardens sometimes
and please do let her rest.

the storyteller

he came riding into town on a horse
turned white by the dust or perhaps
by the mere purity of his heart.
he wanted to share stories of his land
and people would listen and chat
and learn to speak the same words
from town to town; while all he got
was a few words for thanks and a couple
of coins, enough to last
so he can ride out to the next town.

the seeds of the stories he planted
they grew into vines, with flowers and fruits
that now connect all these towns
and the chidlren who tell of his stories
are somehow happily tied
with invisible chains of friendship
linking their hearts
into a similar dance, which they can
all dance in a world
where distance only matters at times.

the singer

his salty voice filled the piazza
his guitar working the rhythm
the children were used to stomping their feet,
their humming spreading all over town

the wind they created got strength to push
the cyclists up the hill,
rising their dreams bathed in sweat
above the clouds that limit the mind.

the dust from the motorcycles
did not dare stain the clothes hung out to dry
while he sang his heart out,
with stories he met in his travels or sleep

the girls turned pretty, and just as strong
as the boys because he sung their powers
in his songs. the boys dared to dream,
unashamed, just like girls - of a brighter tomorrow.

many children learned to take their firs steps,
and some even grew old enough to exchange
a first kiss, while he sung his stories
for a couple decades in salty voice, in the piazza.