petrică bistran - walk talk

petrică bistran - untitled (we run)

untitled (we run) 

so I’ll let you be me. the familiar has stopped. stillness is no longer an option. death falls on us like a damned season of hell. snow on open wounds, ash flowers, shelled cities for a runway. we run. you may know the eerie quietness at night but not the rumbling noise and fire in the dark sky close enough for the deaf to hear it. we run and the blood-dust of our fathers’ land stick to our shoes. mothers and children are we, and my thoughts alone are a doorway to a measure of peace, the peace that reminds us that only fear is worse than death. my words are the mind of the world open to love. a poem is not a bomb, a poem is not a circus of evil. a poem is you and I when the bridge we cross from opposite directions disappears behind us.

"death falls on us like a damned season of hell. snow on open wounds, ash flowers, shelled cities for a runway."

"my words are the mind of the world open to love. a poem is not a bomb, a poem is not a circus of evil."

"so I’ll let you be me. the familiar has stopped. stillness is no longer an option."

Christ

evening in a country house in Portugal

a new sun

Bălăuță’s last dinner with his family.

on the road from Newcastle to Nottingham (National Express)

resting ballerina

Miri’s blue planet

Paul Klee, keep your

music, painting, poetry alive!

music will teach us to fly

free hand

short prayer:

Lord, I’m not your problem,

I’m your child.