Mihaela Pirjol Poems
We cannot aspire to that which is already dead,
And there is no solace in delusion;
We should save the present for future memories
Thus, to remember we had a life we lived.
No soul which is born alone and dies alone ever pertain
To anyone, on this mortal realm of mortals;
Nothing we are, but an evanescent breath of air;
Utopian significance of being insignificant.
How a superbus phallus in carnal pleasure dies,
That ephemeral all these earthly passions are;
Like the face of moon from dusk till dawn
When sun replace its ardour with other kind of ...
Beneath The London's Sky
Looking out my attic's window,
On a freezing-cold November day,
Upon the dull-grey London's sky;
A flock of starlings delights my eyes.
The houses, symmetrically aligned,
Appear to bear the mystery of earth;
My spirit, is howling like wolves,
In a stagnant hibernation, bruised.