Tag Archives: cuvinte de Iulia Halatz

Love is the fifth season

Love is the fifth season.
It starts in March
With shines of longer days,
guarding the waters more.

It moves along with
greens and joys of May.
It flourishes above the lilacs
And with you I sleep
Amidst lilies-of-the-valley…

It drifts down July dusks
Colored in bluish touches.
……………………………………………
October is the beginning of times
Cutting edges and bringing back
Memories of youth.
Now it is the season to embrace
The truth.

Ivan Tzarevitch

Art by Ivan Tzarevitch.

Deserts

“Men had always been the reciters of poetry in the desert.”

Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient.

…As among dunes you can only see God or who you want. To see.

No assault to the imagination. No questions and whispers by people.

Only the wind carries wishes afar.

A poem soaring above the dunes brings the clarity of music and has the speed of sound.

And we get to see the glassy shine of Orion…

Love among deserts is never the same.

Part of magic deserts by Ivan Fedorovich Choultse.

Deserts

Hurt

So many have hurt me

Out of love.

And I have worn the scars

As triumphs

Over my weaknesses.

Now I see your love

On my lips,

Into the changing colour

Of my eyes.

Your tentacles are invisible

And caressing

As ever…

I feel your thoughts

Scattered all over

As floating images

In my mirrors, every day.

I Wish…

I were as beautiful

As a painted picture

On a wall

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Girl and butterflies

Some say I have butterflies

Dancing in my head,

Green when winter’s away,

Red when trusting a dream,

Blue in hazy clearings,

Opening my paths

To you

To me

To him…

My yellow butterflies are polished silver

Glowing of ideas,

Shimmering of sparks

above linden flowers

In Spring.

Butterflies are always pink. Remember that.

Picture by Antonis Kalantzis.

girl with butterflies

Fata cu fluturi

Unii ar zice că am fluturi în cap

Verzi când iarna-i departe

Roșii când mă sprijin de un vis.

Albaștri în aburi de poieni limpezi

Care-mi deschid drumuri…

Spre tine

Spre mine

Spre el…

Fluturii mei galbeni

Sunt de fapt de argint

Sclipind în idei

Cu scântei

Prin ramuri de tei.

Primăvara…

My yellow butterflies By  Ꮛ Ꮛ A r i e t e Ꮛ Ꮛ.

Fata cu fluturi

What is Love?

I know nothing of love, only that it is green. My love is painted upon the love of another.

Love is not a polished thing, but polishing your world with dreams is Love.

Love means spreading her paths with flowers.

“If I had a flower for every time I thought of you, I could walk through my garden forever” Lord Alfred Tennyson.

My love is totally simple and naive. Red in the flowers and the flamingos, green in the grass and the goodness of the world in you….and …I have a garden.

My garden by Katto Tokyo.

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Old and New

It was a strange and eerie time. Difficult.

I don’t look back. I don’t like the times when we are compelled, at least by convention, to create our invisible boundaries: New Years…

There is nothing to see. Or Do. Just comparisons…This Old is too New.

I learn from the past, I do not ponder over it. I agree with the Old, only if they remind me of another age, glamorously twisted into different and fascinating faces.

Anything that is good comes from the past. Only that we didn’t have the right mirror to see it clearly.

In the New world I would like to have a rest.

“To Rest is to receive all aspects of the world without judgment”…Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient.

A bath in the sun, a trip into the winds, New stories to be told, New times to be spent, Old people to be loved, and I don’t get to ask “Why?”…

Questionless…by Henri Rousseau.

Henry Rousseau