In the street of Zazel, hidden in the dark of a corner, blue eyes are shinning. A man sets foot, moving into the bare light of the moon. His big blue eyes are a sculpture under thick blonde hair. That and his tallness set women into spirit rebelion. And now one passes by him and falls under his blue. And falls even more as he grabes her hand and takes her into the shadow of an alley. Covering her voice with his other hand. There were the light makes no site he lays her gently on the ground as she is moaning through his fingers. Beggings flow between them and knock on his humanity.
- Don't worry! I will be gentile! he sings as he reaches to his pocket.
A knife mirrors the moon and silk-touches bare-skin. Soon blood sets sight and paints her dainty neck as her eyes still question the blue, slowly fading to eternity.
Saul turns back to his tallness and shortenes his tweed. The clock sings nine. He was to hurry.
The church was still to be entered, so he stepped on the marble, he stepped in an ocean of silence. Only his tremble troubled it. He kneeled in front of the shrine and prayed with stingering eyes.
- Please God! Let there be fire. Let there be war so I can ease my thirst.
marți, 16 iunie 2009
Pe pamant basarabean.
Sub un tun indreptat catre Romania sta scris: ,,Nimeni nu se uita, nimic nu se iarta."
Одеса не спав.
Trecand pe langa Richelieu, cobori treptele Potemkin. Cobori mult si dai peste farul cu lumina rosie. Micutul golf te primeste linistit, unindu-si malurile catre miaza-zi. Croaziera de 40 de minute se intoarce de la Arcadia.
Одеса, не в порядку.
Un mic Paris mai Paris decat al nostru. Zgomotos, cu atat mai zgomotos cu cat tu nu intelegi nimic din ce se spune sau se scrie. Dar oamenii sunt simpli.
Plaja e plina de scoici. Apa de un verde pal iti refuza caldura. Si soarele apune in spatele plajei.
Si zambesc de sub parul lor blond. Si beau bere in locuri publice.