Romanian Poetry Quotes

I don't know why time is dancing now before us soft and sandy like the poets' women. it wants me in all songs. maybe you'd take me in for a moment to your Andalusia where today no one has died.

the old ones hold their kiss in stones.

Când ne deschidem tu mie şi eu ţie, când ne scufundăm tu în mine şi eu în tine, când ne pierdem tu în mine şi eu în tine, Abia atunci eu sunt eu şi tu eşti tu.

All she wanted was A luminous fish, One she could never fish.

wait for me in a song! if you’ve come to dinner, release your dogs, pour the wine into the sky, for all the longing ghosts of the grapes (...)

There is so much love in a sunset, Descending from this world In quiet worship.

așteaptă-mă cântând! dacă-ai venit la cină dezleagă-ți câinii toți răstoarnă-l în cer vinul pentru stihiile albe ale strugurilor (...)

someone was singing and he was alone. for us, you wrote yourself in small letters so we wouldn’t know. from the bitterness of blood, from the nights of the eagles, that music began, but we couldn’t hear it. the grapes are calling their wine, the stranger. (...)

I cannot explain what a prayer is. But I know how to kneel in the grass with the fallen leaves, How to ask back and how to let go, and how to get the sunset in my veins, drop by drop, every day more. And maybe some day I will learn, to give like trees in autumn, until my own dissolution. Everything will eventually go away And it will always be too soon.

I cannot explain what a prayer is but I know how to kneel down into the grass with the fallen leaves, how to ask back and how to let go, and how to get the sunset in my veins, drop by drop, every day more. And maybe some day I will learn, to give much more, like trees in autumn, until my own dissolution.

C10 (or the king's carolers – from student times) on the side stairway, we gather in the evening, many the cold cement steps welcome us as if we were the king's carolers we have mulled wine and dry snacks the orange guitar stretches and warps in the candlelight we take another drag from the cigarette, nibble on sticks and salty biscuits happiness pricks our veins with Burmese nails One floor below, behind the door 'Mr. Blues - Don't Disturb' the tasty rot of jazz caresses our toes We sin in thought, our minds dangling from the railing later, the Serbs come to sing with us Golden-haired like gods from a bombed country we scratch the wall with our nails, don’t know what to say they bring us wafers with fruits and chocolate wrapped in green foil the second evening we gather again on the side stairway with the same mulled wine and dry snacks and the same us the old rockers hanging heavy on the guitar’s body at the midnight office.

Bram Stoker’s Recipe His peppermill mind Ground Romanian folklore, Dished out bloody bites.