Long Romania Poems
Long Romania Poems. Below are the most popular long Romania by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Romania poems by poem length and keyword.
The A, class people
there had been a mass outbreak, thefts from the store
selling fairy tales, honestly, it had nothing to do with me
It was not me who wrote, if you love a tree, it will uproot
settle outside your living room, you can admire it daily
the tree, if an oak grows taller and taller blocking your street view, and the house will be permanently in the shade and your electricity bills horrendous.
An olive tree upon hearing the love call of one in love with the fauna, came and settled in the middle of the road outside, blocking the traffic of trucks full of muck
Do something, they hollered!
I closed my eyes hard and saw the galaxy blinking
stars, colored light of rockets flying from planets trying
to sell an invention made by a Mars man who moved
to earth “inventing” what had been invented on Jupiter by a man called Tesler, not tolerating the earth's diet he had
in the middle of the night, flown back to Jupiter
the man from Mars is into rockets (naturally) and electric cars, he also not of the goodness of his heart, helps people to invest in his projects
It is simple, you give him $1000.00 he invests the money
on your behalf and six months later you will receive 2000$.
all this is tempting but since the gigantic pyramid case
in Romania, I have cold feet.
This has nothing to do with the love of trees
so much so, that the princess worrying about the state of her father's kingdom, can't sleep at night despite sleeping on top of seven mattresses and a duvet made of spun, white
clouds – we have been informed the duvet can also be brown
The princess fell off her mattress but we were on guard she was saved, apparently she had been dreaming of a Roma-looking stable boy.
No, she didn't tell us about the dream, but we could guess.
A Chinese proverb has it, that if you save a person's life you are personable and responsible for that person's life
That is the way it is, we are stuck with rich people and royals because we are forelock-touching fools
Spiritual Monsters
Mental Monsters
“What about you talking?” asked Master Satan.
About psychology. About psychologists.
“Tell me.”
Yes. I don’t like them.
“Why?”
They want to rule my mind.
They want to rule my soul.
They want to rule my life.
“How?”
Limited life.
Limited mind.
Limited knowing.
Limited will.
I mean limited personal will.
No imagined personal life goals.
I can’t do my life, because psychology rules my life.
“They chose your life?”
Exactly.
“In the company?”
Yes.Too. Also.
“What about the present?”
I needed a woman there.
“Who is this lady?”
A lady from Romania. From Transylvania.
“More information, please.”
She is around thirty, or a bit younger.
Typically, that character is what I like.
“Understand. Israelite type.”
Yes.
“Continue, please.”
She is Hungarian. She is working in the office.
I am working in the production area. In the kitchen.
So, she is going to break at the same time every day.
“When?”
From twelve to twelve thirty. My break time is not fixed.
I was trying to break the same timer with her.
They saw from the camera how I was running to fix my things.
“Clear everything to go to break.”
Exactly.
“Then?”
They always sent me on break at different times.
Sometimes we met for a few minutes at lunchtime.
But it wasn’t enough to talk.
“Do you think this situation was planned directly?”
Yes. I think I was again a victim of psychological experimentation.
“This was a psychological experiment in London.
Directly or indirectly, by psychologists. Forget that woman.
She collaborated with this kind of psychologists against you.
You are a Hungarian. She is also a Hungarian. But she is a traitorous woman.
She collaborated with this kind of psychology against you. Forget this woman. Forever.”
I do.
“That’s right.”
I want to take a note.
“Do.”
This kind of psychology considers Europeans and
All the other people from other continents are inferior.
I just feel it.
“Thank you.”
“Do you think this kind of psychology rules over its people?”
I think it' psychology that appropriates people.
This kind of psychology considers every person as its own property.
This kind of psychology does not respect the individual.
This kind of psychology is autocratic. Extremely.
You have no will. Your own life. Only this kind of psychology.
America, so vast and the land of the free
Brazil, carnivals and beach beauties
Canada, untouched, with the mighty Niagara Falls
Denmark, with the mermaid, luring sailors with her call
Egypt, under Cleopatra, and her historical power
France, so romantic with its Eiffel Tower
Germany, the perpetrators, of the Holocaust
Haiti, sadly, counting her lost
Italy, with its architecture, like the Trevi fountain in Rome
Japan, and its little Bonsai trees, so very much at home
Kenya, on safari in her national parks
Lebanon, a country, full of political sparks
Malta, so brave, its why they won the George Cross
New Zealand, and the Maoris, their culture to never be lost
Oman, the Sultanate, lies beside the Arabian Sea
Portugal, a golfing Mecca, as i stand on the very first tee
Qatar, an Arab emirate in the Middle East
Romania, Nadia Comaneci and her Olympic gymnast feats
Sweden, the home of Abba, and their wonderful pop songs
Turkey, has Istanbul, where two continents get along
Uganda, in Africa, where Idi Amin ruled
Vietnam, where nineteen year old soldiers were schooled
Wake Island, a most beautiful coral atoll
Xanadu, because i ran out of countries to call
Yemen, a Republic, to the south of the Red Sea
Zimbabwe, with Mugabe, a country ruined by he
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/the-world.php
I told you long ago that this land called "Romania" has exhausted its sources of blood and dreams.
For 35 years, we've been walking the thin line of memories, on the debts left by those shaped under Ceau?escu,
but they are slowly retreating to the quiet pensions and to the Cold Park of fleeting shadows.
Those who follow are merely dreamers of small trades, a kind of Hittites wandering through markets,
and it's no wonder that Georgescu wants to appoint them Land Leaders, shepherds for a lost nation.
A forgotten model of pueblo, like the Mayans who wove the sky with the earth, boroughs breathing history,
a combination of lost tribes and medieval ages, a time that was never born.
Perhaps another 935 years under an iron hand were needed for Romanians to become a nation of dreams and hope,
but never! They are talking tools that cannot be quiet in the toolbox of history.
Personally, I would lean towards a utopia between an ashram and a kibbutz, a sort of camp finding its place,
under the open sky of a cauldron where dreams and desires mix, grills and stoves, a dance of fire and smoke.
Here, between the heated stoves and woks that swirl the aromas of life, you clearly see we are nomads of the soul,
or perhaps the Brought Ones, nourished by the camps of a present seeking roots in a world of mist and echo.
In this story, we always find the same images, the same longings that do not fade,
a country searching for its identity in the smoke of an eternal fire, a nation dancing in endless circles,
where the past and future meet in a melancholic dance, like a song that never stops.
The Most Beloved Among Earthlings
Thank you, Mr. Calin Georgescu, for the hope that flows like a river through our souls,
For changing our mindset like a garden blooming under the warm light of the sun,
For teaching me to be kinder, warmer, different, like a flower opening at dawn,
And for seeing Romania as a unique place, a treasure hidden under the starry sky of history.
Thank you for everything, may God reward you for your sincere heart,
For your soul, open like a book written with kindness and the desire to give,
Thank you for wanting to give us water, food, energy, and peace, like a golden dream,
You wished to change Romania, stolen by time and depleted, to restore its brilliance.
Thank you for wishing us a life lived beautifully and meaningfully, a life of respect,
Where we respect ourselves and those around us, equal in our own Romania,
But some have seen, while others have not, that you wish us well, that you love us,
It is human for people to be both for and against, to seek light and shadow at the same time.
I hold nothing against anyone, as everyone believes in whom they choose, follows their own path,
But I want to thank you, Mr. Calin Georgescu, for being in our dream,
For wanting to create a Romania for Romanians, a place where hearts beat together,
They removed you, but I believe Jesus looked up and said, as he did two millennia ago:
Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do!
And thus, we are left to dream, to hope, to build a future from memories,
To seek light in the darkness and to believe in the goodness that still binds us,
To keep alive the flame of the desire to be better, more united, closer to the truth,
Thank you, Mr. Calin Georgescu, for being a part of our story.
In my castle, live dragons...yes, dragons;
after all, they are humble beings
quite suitable for keeping the place
warm in the winter months.
Oh don’t worry, my castle is completely stone;
fourteen-foot thick walls, house my scaly brood.
It’s the only dragon-heated castle in the world.
I have nineteen dragon chefs,
all schooled in Romania,
and holding degrees in, Dragon Cuisine.
You know, the exotic stuff like,
Yak on a spit and whale-blubber tarts;
of course, their favorite dessert is
chocolate pork pie and lots of it.
They go through about three thousand
chocolate pigs a year and
yes, it’s somewhat expensive
to breed that many but,
my dragons,
all thirty-one of them,
are worth it.
David started playing table tennis,
At the age of ten in his local club,
Where his dad worked as a coach,
And where his brother played him.
He was born with a bone disorder,
Rare Multiple Epiphyseal Dysplasia,
And is a graduate of Sheffield Uni,
In Biological Chemistry medical.
He attended Beijing and London,
And won many medals in 2014,
In Italy, Slovenia and Slovakia,
And in Romania 2015 gold, silver.
Then the Euros in Vejle, Denmark,
And David won singles and team,
Bronze, and then in Lignano 2016,
David won bronze and team silver.
In Rio he made the quarter finals,
And was born in Torpoint, Cornwall,
Just before Christmas time in 1989 -
He lives and he trains in Sheffield.
Under the heavy and ash-gray wing of the evening,
In the melancholic waltz of memories awakened in rains,
Through the night stretching its hand like an old bell-ringer,
Ringing the bell of departure and appearing desolate in the mirror.
A veil of sadness weaves the starry vault above,
Where the moon, in silence, watches over mortal frailties,
On this fertile earth, yes, once it was fertile,
The echo of steps disintegrates the soil in strangers and wanderers, fatefully.
Oh, sister in destiny, proud land of heroes and poets,
Now you are the stage of a tragic act divided into many separations,
The brotherhood that was said to unite us, quietly dissipates,
Oh, mother, my homeland, how we sold our hopes for silver!
The air is laden with a heavy burden of heavenly pallor,
From the fields where wheat grain by grain whispered songs to the sun,
No longer pours gold, but only regrets, thoughts that fade,
In all we try to have, the shadow of the nameless ones lingers, who.
We live, simple people, with broken nature and torn souls,
Under the sign of signatures on forgotten and voiceless papers,
We struggle between walls of indifference, singing only in the boundless,
While life drains from us, vomiting the poison of bitterness.
Peacemakers of sweet whispers, now hoarse in pain,
Apologize for an unjust curse that can no longer be washed away,
A nation born from dreams and fierce struggle, slowly fades under humiliation,
As if the ancestors were only ghosts in the heavy history.
Mad poet, who dares to write in verses an elegy,
When our house is a game, a bet lost in our own room,
Now, even the dead in stones bow in a silent prayer,
For Romania that wears the gray coat of helplessness and payment.
But do you hear the bell that separates time from immortality?
A prelude to what is to come, over everything that once crackled,
It's the evening of the last ball, where our steps are counted in stars,
From dawn, we will be only Romanians from everywhere, in an endless song of regret.
Perhaps, tomorrow – it will be desolate here, silence will speak more clearly,
And we, with hearts in chains, will start a bittersweet exile,
Farewell, lost brothers in the relentless wheel's motion,
Goodbye, motherland, I throw you a last kiss, in the wind, a farewell.
Romania's Last Ball
We have become tenants in our own country like shadows without border or name,
Our flour yields nothing and the bread no longer rises from the flame,
Foreign interests grind us down like a worm inside the core of a ripe apple bright,
And the destiny of our people has been broken... and no one took up its fight.
The Phanariots lead us with hands of wax and with oaths that are easily swapped,
They change their faith like neckties and their forgotten promises are dropped,
Humbly we apologize that they have not tormented us enough in this short life,
And they teach betrayal to the young... with a sweet voice... and with a deaf and hollow knife.
We no longer have factories and we no longer have land and we no longer have a voice,
We speak our own language in another tongue and words are no longer our choice,
Only the beautiful shame of a people preparing itself for exile and for wandering,
And even the graves are packing up for the road... in this agony and squandering.
Mad poet what words do you still mutter about a people that will not yield,
When we have become beggars and servants on our own native field,
The living and the dead mixed together ready to emigrate at the break of day,
A de-Romanianized Romania... counting its children... who no longer want to stay.
The fatal bell is heard on the evening of the last ball and the final night,
Times of fury and of hailstorms are coming down on all our children's sight,
The high and mighty dance upon our ruins in their cold and festive wear,
And we watch as our country... is sold... and lost... and disappears into the air.
Safe travels people lost on a bet we never knew that we were making and giving,
Farewell mother country... farewell... a word we speak but cannot believe we are living,
Perhaps tomorrow there will be emptiness and all of us will leave with broken hearts to roam,
Romania... the last ball... and the orchestra... keeps playing... keeps playing... far from home.
Dear President Biden,
STOP RUSSIA AND PUTIN NOW!
DO NOT WAIT UNTIL TOMORROW
2,000+ innocent civilians slaughtered in Ukraine in the first 6 days of war
Over 100,000 Ukranian refugees 'safe' in Poland or Romania.
(UN states over 1,000,000 Ukranian refugees already created.)
ONLY MILITARY DEFEAT AND/OR DEATH WILL STOP PUTIN
SANCTIONS WILL NEVER DETER HIM - NEVER
YOU, MR. PRESIDENT, CAN SAVE TENS OF THOUSANDS, IF NOT MILLIONS
OF LIVES! --or the blood of those killed will be upon your hands,
for failing to act when you still had the chance.
TODAY IT'S UKRAINE. TOMMOROW, MOLDAVA. (Next up).
THE DAY AFTER TOMORROW, IT'S THE UK AND THE USA.
ACT NOW, MR. BIDEN. DO NOT WAIT. DEFEAT RUSSIA AND PUTIN.
Thank you,
Gershon Wolf