The board of the world turns, stained with chess and late silences
The board of the world turns, stained with chess and late silences,
Black-and-white photographs spin like two gray stars,
I sacrifice my bishop, then the king — the last cartridge,
Hoping death applies mascara, an illusory retouch.
Days dissolve in my ink-blue blood,
A dizzy star paints the edges of the mind with sickness,
White pages aim at the temple of thought with deaf arrows,
My mind unravels into hooks of time, too damp.
From beyond afar, I overlay the same night,
I read poetry's will, as if over whispers,
So no one ends up doping their empty soul,
With money in their pupils, like headlights on the road to the flock.
In the tin hell, hurriedly, we wash our biographies,
IT dump, recycled interfaces,
PCs anoint the solemn criterion of dying clean:
Not to remember childhood — a forgotten paradise.
Translucent beads hide my cry in living display cases,
Drunken tears, slapped by gazes like gray police,
I count breathing the alphabet cracked in coal,
My words grow thorns like roses without a world.
On the board of memory, knights jump cold diagonals,
Queens clutch moons with pins in their eternal hand,
The rooks — mailboxes to other galaxies,
Pawns — sleeping children in bags of living constellations.
The sky holds its breath, photocopies us slowly,
Forests of firewalls burn, like cathedrals in the wind,
Login to life: password — a wound with a taste of bitterness,
Logout from death: a click on the edge, without destiny.
In me flows a magnetic tape, black with time,
With the sound of snow on the screen of an Olympus,
I write on your retina a poem, encoded in smoke,
For you to read in the dark, without letting it go.
I tie my childhood to my ankle with a comet string,
So the grass won’t flee when the body becomes a planet,
I play with small angels, slow sugar pawns,
And a dream falls from my palm — bullets make it smooth concrete.
The waters of the mind, dappled, exchange salt for echo,
Truth hides in the silence between “yours” and “mine,”
And there, in the middle, when moments don a red veil,
I kiss you between squares — a touch-up on the final basket.
Hidden behind the orbit, a mist beacon grows in me,
I move it like a queen in my dark labyrinth,
And all that I cannot say is closed in a pocket of ember,
I place it on the board — the move is a prayer, not a calendar.
When knights are silent and the clock sticks out its tongue,
A stream of consciousness remains — a bridge between saints,
And I gather from the dripping air a song without body:
“Do not forget the child within you,” written in light on a wolf.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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