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■ Pașadine în vers alb (73)
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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2012-11-05 | [Acest text ar trebui citit în english] |
"Does anybody here remember Vera Lynn?"
No one out there to remember, no one to reply. Innocence is past, with no one to imagine what is was... Legions of faded poppies marching quietly over ashes of once resurrected hopes; When I was younger I remember dreaming about being older; now that I'm older I don't dare dreaming anymore. Only at noons, early afternoons, maybe evenings I dream, long, nearly frozen worm holes leading into another Oz, where guitar strings are still used over stretched swan necks in an absolutely harmlessly musical manner, and over microscopic black holes too small to swallow any sound... If I'd have to choose between Jesus and Buddha, I'll have my granny, because she always added to her not even written down love sweet plum dumplings with cinnamon, and bought me a guitar out of her pension against my dad's will who said he'll crash it to my head, and ice cream and custard cream and suffered me drain half her coffee with a dozen sugar cubes... She died before finishing to fry my life's pile of pancakes, so here I am, maple syrup golden syrup, cinnamon, brown sugar and all... Still waiting, immature grown-up with nowhere to go, just realising Oz is not even a place, just another granny's absence where Dorothy is barefoot, frying lion steaks in tin pans over straw fires...
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