I remember you as you were in the last autumn.
You were the grey beret and the still heart.
In your eyes the flames of the twilight fought on.
And the leaves fell in the water of your soul.

Clasping my arms like a climbing plant
the leaves garnered your voice, that was slow and at peace.
Bonfire of awe in which my thirst was burning.
Sweet blue hyacinth twisted over my soul.

I feel your eyes traveling, and the autumn is far off:
Grey beret, voice of a bird, heart like a house
Towards which my deep longings migrated
And my kisses fell, happy as embers.

Sky from a ship. Field from the hills:
Your memory is made of light, of smoke, of a still pond!
Beyond your eyes, farther on, the evenings were blazing.
Dry autumn leaves revolved in your soul.

by Pablo Neruda

I can't leave aside the latitude of your eye
where roads and memories reside
my dreams
more than my shadow crash into you
my lips conjure your scent
my insinuated hand  does not hold
does not hold anything tangible
words are wounds, the meanings flow
angles intersect and lines converge
to the proof or woof of your existence
in this poem the words laugh
at the fragile calculus of tears
as if they would celebrate the question mark
in an unfinished sentence
I wonder where your touch begin, how far
the eye can stretch into the camera obscura of flesh

in the mood for rhyme
hands smell of thyme
and thought is a mime
I'm searching for a chime
this love is playtime

Thus, like the skin
of a shorn ewe, the day rises.

It is difficult to skin the self from a stone.
It is difficult to skin memory from a Greek.

But why should we talk about these!
After all,
light too has a skin,
light too can be skinned...
So
light too is guilty of being.

A gust of fresh air
comes with the millennium.
We are beautiful;
why should we not be beautiful?

We eat one another
only from hunger,
from adoration,
from structure,
from love.
It doesn't matter.
We are what we are,
that is, beautiful.

I carry my ever still blood
in my heart.
I carry my ever salt tear
in my eye.

I carry the angel in the middle of heaven.

by Nichita Stanescu

I pass by cafés and shops
with eyes as wide as narrow boulevards
I feel it, certain ideas consume the oxygen of mind
I pass by myself, lose track of routes or hyperbolic sensations
poetry drips down from this quiet space where
splendid contradictions resist the temptation
to capitalize on exclusion, where fullness and emptiness
talk to one another as mimes do
for a change, wide boulevards pass through my narrow eyes
imagination plays its alchemy on my mind like a sugar spike
I rest on an origami isle - your smile

An odor has remained among the sugarcane:
a mixture of blood and body, a penetrating
petal that brings nausea.
Between the coconut palms the graves are full
of ruined bones, of speechless death-rattles.
The delicate dictator is talking
with top hats, gold braid, and collars.
The tiny palace gleams like a watch
and the rapid laughs with gloves on
cross the corridors at times
and join the dead voices
and the blue mouths freshly buried.
The weeping cannot be seen, like a plant
whose seeds fall endlessly on the earth,
whose large blind leaves grow even without light.
Hatred has grown scale on scale,
blow on blow, in the ghastly water of the swamp,
with a snout full of ooze and silence

some would argue that others don't believe in tears
I would say they push the tears into clouds
they rain horror on our mouths' sky
despair on our skin's topography
disjointed jaws displace the mind
disembodied voices displace the soul

they look at reality with raven eyes
a tzar without empire and a fool like me/you/us
they wage war on reality but
I promised myself a war on tears
I return some shadows to the dark
past is like a bird that forgot the magnetic mind
the enemy is kept in ckeck for two hundred years,
a fabricated reality hotter than a lover
a freedom colder than a heart without pulse
without an enemy there is no identity  
this is a trappping thought and
clandestine thoughts write history, rewrite destinies
we stare at hope on blind windows but
we promise ourselves a war against numbness
against depression bleached in abandoned factories
an anxiety deeper than the weight of time
wages war on imagination
this future is held hostage by hands without silence
our cities suffocate whispers and we gaze at truth with vacant eyes:
a king without a throne, a wanderer, like me