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Showing posts with label self. Show all posts
Showing posts with label self. Show all posts
O inimă plecată din trup
Words on first painting by Dorel Găină
second painting - inspired by and painted accordingly for Julien Marie
evening solace
The human heart has hidden treasures,
In secret kept, in silence sealed;
The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures,
Whose charms were broken if revealed.
And days may pass in gay confusion,
And nights in rosy riot fly,
While, lost in Fame's or Wealth's illusion,
The memory of the Past may die.
But, there are hours of lonely musing,
Such as in evening silence come,
When, soft as birds their pinions closing,
The heart's best feelings gather home.
Then in our souls there seems to languish
A tender grief that is not woe;
And thoughts that once wrung groans of anguish,
Now cause but some mild tears to flow.
And feelings, once as strong as passions,
Float softly backa faded dream;
Our own sharp griefs and wild sensations,
The tale of others' sufferings seem.
Oh ! when the heart is freshly bleeding,
How longs it for that time to be,
When, through the mist of years receding,
Its woes but live in reverie !
And it can dwell on moonlight glimmer,
On evening shade and loneliness;
And, while the sky grows dim and dimmer,
Feel no untold and strange distress
Only a deeper impulse given
By lonely hour and darkened room,
To solemn thoughts that soar to heaven,
Seeking a life and world to come
(Charlotte Bronte)
In secret kept, in silence sealed;
The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures,
Whose charms were broken if revealed.
And days may pass in gay confusion,
And nights in rosy riot fly,
While, lost in Fame's or Wealth's illusion,
The memory of the Past may die.
But, there are hours of lonely musing,
Such as in evening silence come,
When, soft as birds their pinions closing,
The heart's best feelings gather home.
Then in our souls there seems to languish
A tender grief that is not woe;
And thoughts that once wrung groans of anguish,
Now cause but some mild tears to flow.
And feelings, once as strong as passions,
Float softly backa faded dream;
Our own sharp griefs and wild sensations,
The tale of others' sufferings seem.
Oh ! when the heart is freshly bleeding,
How longs it for that time to be,
When, through the mist of years receding,
Its woes but live in reverie !
And it can dwell on moonlight glimmer,
On evening shade and loneliness;
And, while the sky grows dim and dimmer,
Feel no untold and strange distress
Only a deeper impulse given
By lonely hour and darkened room,
To solemn thoughts that soar to heaven,
Seeking a life and world to come
(Charlotte Bronte)
a portrait by Lehel Makara
Altfel Făcută
tu eşti altfel făcută decât mine. tu mă înspăimânţi.
tu eşti un monstru. mi-e frică de tine.
ai lucruri pe care eu nu le am. ai sâni, de pildă,
ai tupeu.
ai o grămadă de rochii, ai rude cu grade universitare.
şi, doamne cum îţi picură părul până pe şale
ca un camion fructexport, fantomatic şi moale
care ar trece pe dorobanţi.
şi ai şolduri, şi ai pandalii, ai amanţi...
inconştientul tău trebuie să fie aşa uriaş
încât ar putea să reducă el singur diferenţa dintre sat şi oraş
să pună capăt valului de violenţă şi pornografie
cu doar un gest, sau o alifie.
nu, dacă tu ai fi un film documentar despre valenţele elementelor chimice
iar eu o tablă pe-un acoperiş de siloz
tot n-am fi fost aşa de străini
în realitatea cu atheneuri, caberneturi, maşini.[...]
tu eşti un monstru. mi-e frică de tine.
ai lucruri pe care eu nu le am. ai sâni, de pildă,
ai tupeu.
ai o grămadă de rochii, ai rude cu grade universitare.
şi, doamne cum îţi picură părul până pe şale
ca un camion fructexport, fantomatic şi moale
care ar trece pe dorobanţi.
şi ai şolduri, şi ai pandalii, ai amanţi...
inconştientul tău trebuie să fie aşa uriaş
încât ar putea să reducă el singur diferenţa dintre sat şi oraş
să pună capăt valului de violenţă şi pornografie
cu doar un gest, sau o alifie.
nu, dacă tu ai fi un film documentar despre valenţele elementelor chimice
iar eu o tablă pe-un acoperiş de siloz
tot n-am fi fost aşa de străini
în realitatea cu atheneuri, caberneturi, maşini.[...]
(Mircea Cărtărescu)
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