passions form labyrinths in which
we lose and find and
then lose ourselves again. Bernhard Schlink, from The Reader (Vintage International, 1995)
Your soul works on woods
And mine, on electricity.
Your love fills the sky with smoke,
Mine is made from pure flames.
Still we’ll walk together
For a great deal of earth,
For a great deal of sky,
For a great deal of moon.
We’ll be happy for the grass
And for the lake,
We’ll laugh for the tree
We’ll cherish the straight road with a kiss
And we’ll hold a moment of silence
For every turning point.
We’ll follow my shadow
Which goes right ahead,
We’ll follow the first thought,
We’ll follow two or three words.
Until on our way
Saint Friday will come
To tell us, among other things,
That we’re no longer young.
And that she’s not going to give us from now on
Either the electricity for the flame
Or the wood for the smoke.
Marin Sorescu -Story