![\"received_10210618925684170\"](\"http:\/\/www.nymagazin.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2017\/04\/received_10210618925684170.jpeg\")
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noaptea iubirilor carmine<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00een anii cu brume \u00een anii cu ce\u021buri \u0219i fum risipit de ploi ca o ninsoare \u00eenl\u0103untrul globului de sticl\u0103, c\u0103l\u0103tor dintr-o sfer\u0103 vitraliile ar r\u0103m\u00e2ne oricum stinse, nu m\u0103 chema niciodat\u0103-n tine, prin frigul p\u0103m\u00e2ntului, cenu\u0219a din visele tale la ceas de rodire, pe cale c\u00e2t timp ne-am dospit deziluziile.<\/p>\n t\u00e2rzii deja, de m\u00e2ine<\/p>\n cu ce s\u0103 te acop\u0103r ap\u0103 sfin\u021bit\u0103, n-avem nicic\u00e2nd r\u0103gazul unei respira\u021bii, la u\u0219\u0103 bate somnul ad\u00e2ncurilor tr\u0103iesc \u00eentr-un timp elegiac defect<\/p>\n e-o simpl\u0103 arogan\u021b\u0103 cu t\u0103lpile murdare t\u00e2rziul e devreme \u00eentr-un pretins departe <\/p>\n mam\u0103, \u00eenc\u0103 nu \u0219tiu<\/strong><\/p>\n atingerea dep\u0103rt\u0103rii ca o promisiune limpede, <\/p>\n selec\u021bie realizat\u0103 de NIG – Nu\u021ba Istrate Gangan<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" noaptea iubirilor carmine<\/strong><\/p>\n \u00een anii cu br…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[30],"tags":[],"coauthors":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p4rsGx-w9","_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.nymagazin.com\/en_US\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1993"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.nymagazin.com\/en_US\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.nymagazin.com\/en_US\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.nymagazin.com\/en_US\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.nymagazin.com\/en_US\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1993"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"http:\/\/www.nymagazin.com\/en_US\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1993\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1999,"href":"http:\/\/www.nymagazin.com\/en_US\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1993\/revisions\/1999"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.nymagazin.com\/en_US\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1993"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.nymagazin.com\/en_US\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1993"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.nymagazin.com\/en_US\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1993"},{"taxonomy":"author","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.nymagazin.com\/en_US\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/coauthors?post=1993"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nvorbesc o alt\u0103 limb\u0103,
\npierdut \u00een albastrul
\nunei prim\u0103veri picurate
\nprin firida trupului t\u0103u.<\/p>\n
\npicioarele lungi \u00eentinse peste m\u0103sur\u0103,
\n\u00eencep o alt\u0103 noapte a iubirilor carmine,
\nca o respira\u021bie,<\/p>\n
\no iubire cu ochi albi,
\naroma unor nop\u021bi \u00een destin de piatr\u0103.
\nnu dorm, doar visez<\/p>\n
\n\u00eentr-una mai ad\u00e2nc\u0103,
\ns\u0103 apuc un suflet
\ndintr-un orfelinat al cuvintelor.<\/p>\n
\niar \u00eengerii
\nc\u0103zu\u021bi.<\/p>\n
\nmi-e trist imperativ<\/strong><\/p>\n
\nn-am vreme, asemeni timpului
\nnu pot p\u0103trunde ca un \u00eenger alb
\n\u00een st\u0103ruin\u021ba cu care vrei s\u0103 m\u0103-ngenunchi!
\nnu st\u0103rui \u00een amintirea mea,
\nn-am sim\u021bit \u00eenc\u0103-nsingurarea aspr\u0103,
\nlas\u0103-m\u0103 solubil, r\u0103sturnat pe zi,
\nizvor\u00e2ndu-m\u0103, din nou ca umbr\u0103!
\nnu-mi l\u0103sa adev\u0103rul, nu \u0219tiu s\u0103-alunec,
\nnici nu m\u0103 a\u0219teapt\u0103 noaptea cu t\u0103i\u0219ul ei,
\ndoar las\u0103-m\u0103-ntr-o tihn\u0103 ad\u00e2nc\u0103
\nmu\u0219c\u00e2nd \u00eenc\u0103 o dat\u0103 dintr-o respira\u021bie prea lung\u0103!<\/p>\n
\nrespira\u021bia unei scoici<\/strong><\/p>\n
\npreg\u0103tind un alt joc de lun\u0103 plin\u0103,
\nspre care trebuia s\u0103 urc<\/p>\n
\nde p\u0103dure f\u0103r\u0103 copaci, desen\u00e2nd \u00een lutul mort<\/p>\n
\neu, groparul formelor indecise?
\nexist\u0103 trufie \u00een a\u0219ezarea frunzelor \u00een pom
\nsau durerea mu\u0219c\u0103turii ca o m\u0103sur\u0103 a fricii?<\/p>\n
\nnu mai r\u0103sfir\u0103m fiin\u021bele \u00een van
\n\u0219i nici c\u0103derea oamenilor \u00een gol,
\n\u00een mirosul nop\u021bii c\u00e2nd p\u0103s\u0103rile \u00ee\u0219i iau min\u021bile.<\/p>\n
\ndin toate dimine\u021bile neispr\u0103vite
\nca un cimitir curv.<\/p>\n
\ndesprins\u0103 parc\u0103 ast\u0103zi din boabe de piper,
\nmi-e timpul, necernutul, str\u0103in ca un oracol
\nce-\u015fi st\u0103ruie lumina pe luciul \u00eennegrit,<\/p>\n
\nc\u00e2nd arii triviale din false simfonii
\ndes\u0103v\u00e2r\u015fesc canonul secundei de prisos.<\/p>\n
\nca o b\u0103taie de inim\u0103,
\nreinvent\u00e2ndu-se
\n\u00een noi \u00een\u0219ine.
\nst\u0103p\u00e2nind frunzele,
\nvisele se insinueaz\u0103 gata rostite,
\nrespir aerul viu al copilului din mine.
\nmarginea secundelor devine vinovat\u0103,
\n\u00eenc\u0103rc\u00e2ndu-m\u0103 neverosimil
\ncu patim\u0103,
\ntata a \u00een\u021beles t\u00e2rziu asta.<\/p>\n<\/p>\n