Teodora Dumitriu was born and lives in Campina, Romania. Passions: children, books and English. Sometimes, she writes.
Frozen answers in her eyes, burning questions in her ear:
Memories of myths unfathomed flower far and wither near.
Ages swim in streams so fast, seconds drawn in dreams so slow
As the painter paints the painting, shrinking shyly in its glow.
Nothing’s lost and nothing’s gained,
Nothing’s bought and nothing’s sold
As the hourglass keeps counting
Memories of tales untold.
Every piece is in its place now, but the puzzle’s upside down:
Rocks grow thoughts and trees feed clouds and fires breathe and rivers climb.
Nothing’s missing from the wholeness of a mystery self-birthed
But the hand that, having painted, left the hourglass unturned.
Time has died and there’s no mirror for the beauty to behold
Her own magic, her own story never young and never old.
And the picture-perfect portrait hangs alone in pitch black skies.
No more questions, no more answers. No more tales and no more lies.
No more eyes to see the tear slowly dripping from HER eyes.
I can remember dashing through the desert, in the heat –
But burning sand grains blistered someone else’s feet.
I can remember having tugged and torn all strings –
But, to take off, I needed someone else’s wings.
I can remember having held all planets in my palm –
But it was bound to someone else’s arm.
The smoothness of their graceful shape still lingers –
But felt and strokes by someone else’s fingers.
I can remember having played the music of the spheres –
But it was meant for someone else’s ears.
Whenever thorns and shadows would yeast within my head
The starving thoughts come through breaking someone else’s bread.
All weary words that drizzled through my teeth in bitter drips
Were sipped and shaped and sweetened by someone else’s lips.
Whatever misty, distant shore my eyes can’t see
Somebody else would turn into a fleet of dreams
and sail to me.