End Of Millenium. Final Rehersal. Poem by Lucia Stefanovici

The hardest thing is not saying a word.
The oldman bent in curse
waits that woman without teeth.
Between them bussinesmen-parliamentaries
undetached from the templet,
crowded on the same hopscoch drawn by the criminalogists
whistle and push one onother
On the carotid of chalk.
The hardest thing is not saying a word,
because you notice the sampled misses in pager
and in your goggled eye has moved Diogenes
who is still looking for a human being.
You continue not saying a word.
The hardest thing is not saying a word.
You are sitting right on the way and your parents start to believe you are a fool
and people hooks by you stumbled over
and you feel they carve you with toe cap.
It smells like abyss
at the beginning just a bit
then worse and worse
and the hardest thing is not saying a word.
With te candle come to an end it slowly melts your flash
and your soft and obedient flash
trickles on the
tined life line.
You learned by now to joifully keep silence,
but hard, really hard is not being sad.
Trying to unify rotten racks,
you start to see crucified ascets and cild monks
who beg to carry at least a bit of a sin.
You silently conversate a time
and a half of a time with tem, but hard,
really hard is not being sad.
You know how rarely it happens to pass
someone who keeps the echo of a single word.
Of the lonely word.
And learning not to become sad
though you start to be happy.
As a stone.
Which, being conforted, pours
the taste of the completed word.