vineri, 27 iulie 2012


…tac, spunea Tanase.

The sun is the same
In a relative way
But you're older
Shorter of breath
And one day closer to death
Every year is getting shorter
Never seem to find the time
Plans that either come to naught
Or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation
Is the English way
The time is gone
The song is over
Thought I'd something more to say  

Home again
I like to be here
When I can
When I come home
Cold and tired
It's good to warm my bones
Beside the fire
Far away
Across the field
Tolling on the iron bell
Calls the faithful to their knees
To hear the softly spoken magic spell...

Pink Floyd - Time

6 comentarii:

  1. Mde... ce să înțelegem noi de aici ? Nostalgie ? Te-ai hotărât să taci... bloggeristic ? Lămurește-ne, te rog !

  2. vorba Zinei...nostalgie?
    de unde ti s-a tras?

  3. inca mai am niste ceai rece cu ceva coniac sa stii :)

    1. am inceput sa jinduiesc la ceai cu coniac si eu, dar servite separat.

  4. Eu tic, tu...tac?!
    Noooo, nu-i frumos! Hai să-l excludem pe "tac".

  5. Eu, desi nu le am cu poezia, cred ca te inteleg. Uite si o poezie si de la mine, (dar nu o lua prea personal, pur si simplu mi-a fost lene sa gasesc una mai personalizata pt tine.)

    It's like the process of aging.
    Just a process.
    Your hair starts to grow wilder,
    your skin gets smoother,
    your appetites increase.
    Suddenly, you sing in the shower and in the rain,
    you discover a plant you've never seen before
    and you munch it.
    What's that tiny star on your left temple?
    Maybe a bird scratched it with tender claws
    to prod you into flying.
    And then, that dialogue with the moon
    keeps you awake,
    and then, that dream of death
    becomes more and more remote
    -- or is it the other way around?

    (Youthing, oct 1997, N Cassian)


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