Teodora Dumitriu was born and lives in Campina, Romania. Passions: children, books and English. Sometimes, she writes.
When the tiny ballerina put her light feet on the brink,
She didn’t hesitate.
She didn’t even blink.
“Little wonder for that”, sniffed the Jury of Clones;
“She isn’t made of flesh
And she isn’t made of bones.
She’s like rain in the desert: eyes made of fears,
Limbs made of dreams,
Toes made of tears.”
When the willowy dancer ventured over the edge
Judges weaved safety nets out of the thorniest hedge.
Tricky places she paced with no flinch and no fray –
So they recycled useless nets into a shipshape bouquet.
When her heavy new crown made her bend and look down –
slowly drowned by the noise:
They were counting her tears and were weighing her fears,
Dreams were measured –
and sold off as toys.
The day the prima ballerina oddly faltered, tripped and fell
Made massive headlines in Heaven – raising viewer rates in Hell.
Blasted and blown by a cry and a roar
They bewail and they sob till they struggle no more.
Yes, they flung out of a fret and a fight
But each rough husk of darkness envelops a light.
Softly they swirl and then slowly descend
To immerse in the power and peace of the land.
They seek warmth - to be rested and soothed and absolved
And undressed and caressed and released and dissolved.
When the seeds of the storm fall asleep by the sea
Skies clear up
See the Tree.
The Big Bond
The time is longest ever Now - or maybe Always -
the place is neither Here nor There,
since rippling nothingness unfurls in swelling folds of Everywhere…
and what may seem like silence is in fact
the wafting music of the spheres
whose perfect notes are lighting, in the ballroom of the Universe,
while myriads of misty mirrors glimmer,
wistfully watching, in a trance,
and one besotted planet
from a distance,
their first dance.