IOANA TRICA Poems

Someone was whispering in my right ear:
In a life without aim
We can escape
Chasing the perpetual movement
...

My happy homeland
And its celebrated image
For these past times
Going to an undefined aim
...

It was a trail
Rolled up as a long memory
I used to walk upon it every evening
...

A frozen afternoon

Hallways of loneliness
Were opening new dimensions
...

The inner lands


You still travel
...