(Homage To The Philosopher Emil Cioran)
I took one of the uncounted fire weapons of the Romanian literature and shot my shadow. Right into the very heart, a handful of grass burst into the air.
„Hold up don’t move! “ heard a voice.
Being a good obeyer I didn’t move. To that emptiness in the earth, a people of ants started to go ready to conquer it.
My God, an anthill is my heart, and I suffer this until the sun gets down and the silence falls, like a bride gown.
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Comments about this poem ((Homage To The Philosopher Emil Cioran) by Horatiu Stamatin )
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