The Last - To A Man Of Honour Poem by Lucia Stefanovici

The Last - To A Man Of Honour



I know. We should have been angels.
This way we would have chatted
around the round table
we and our angels
four seasons
Anno Domini.
We should have been angels, but
it is creaking the door and the laquey
is crawling the corpus of days to the closet,
our table neighbours are discussing about
the Americans' point of view and the movie financing,
in the meantime the days are coming back
one by one,
having make-up redone
like some chippies
and are going out in the street
for sure.
We should have been angels.
Otherwise, seated together,
we look in the face our parents,
it does not matter whose,
you with tearing hands,
me with a child voice,
the table is small and empty,
but the waiter is bringing us cups of coffee
and we are trying to sweeten them in the least,
long stirring.
We should have been angels.
This way I would not been forced to slap the bad fore-token
and I would not have thrown me in
and you would not have bent by me
to defend me from the air pressing,
from the world pressing.
We should have been angels, I know that,
but we are only the wings of the same flight
and it is a single bird
with a single eye
which is aiming with more and more insistence
the same out of tune
piano
that is slowly
played.
Minuet?

Friday, June 12, 2015
Topic(s) of this poem: longing
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