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Best Poems Written by Florin Lacatus

Below are the all-time best Florin Lacatus poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Florin Lacatus Poem

Unspoken

Some words
are too heavy
for our fragile lips—
useless burdens.

But what is there left to say
when eye to eye,
forehead to forehead,
silence says it all?
When our pulse murmurs truths
no sound could ever hold?

Perhaps we belong more to silence,
where hearts whisper unseen poems.
What is spoken is often lost.
But what remains unspoken
becomes eternal.

Details | Florin Lacatus Poem

Awakenings

So wake again.
Not as the one you were,
But as the one who has always been.
Between the lines,
In the quiet,
Where the soldier sleeps,
And the world remembers what it has forgotten.

For here, in the space of your breath,
You are neither bound by time nor place.
The past unravels into threads
That stitch the present into a single moment
So fragile,
So infinite,
That even the stars tremble in its light.

Do you hear it?
The sound of your own heartbeat,
A drum echoing through the caverns of the world,
Pulsing the rhythm of forgotten days,
When we knew only the sky above us
And the ground beneath our feet.
Now, we are no longer separate,
No longer distant echoes in a dream,
But the same breath
Exhaled from the mouth of the cosmos,
Filling the spaces between our words.

Come closer.
Let go of the old forms
That have wrapped themselves around your soul
Like the dust of ancient roads.
In this place,
There is no past to carry,
No future to fear.
Only the weightless now,
The endless unfolding,
Where every step leads to a new beginning
And every silence speaks louder than any voice.

I will wait for you here,
In the place where time bends
And the edges of reality blur.
You will no longer need to search,
For the answers are already inside you—
Carried in the echo of your footsteps,
In the rhythm of your pulse,
In the stillness of your soul
That is no longer lost,
But found
In the spaces between all things.

So wake again.
And when you do,
Know that you are the dream,
And the dream is you—
Both fleeting and eternal,
One and many,
A quiet soldier walking
On the beam of a shadow
That stretches forever,
Into the endless horizon of being.
 
And when the jungle stirs,
You will find me in the quiet hum
Of the world waking,
A footnote to your breath,
A moment lost in the fold of the day—
But always here,
Between the spaces
Of what is said,
And what is never spoken.

I am the pulse of the wind’s whisper,
The trace left by the moon’s cold light,
Flickering like the edge of a forgotten dream.
You, who once asked who I was,
Will now no longer need to speak my name,
For I will be the silence beneath your thoughts,
The tremor in the stillness of your waking hours.

We will move like shadows together,
Through the spaces between moments,
Where the past crumbles
And the future blooms
Like a flower untouched by time.
There will be no borders here,
Only the flow of time as it dances
Through the cracks of the universe,
A song only we can hear.

Come with me.
You will no longer question
Why the world falls away from you
When you look too closely—
It is simply the edges of your own self
Unraveling,
Falling into the embrace of the unknown,
Where the meaning of every word
Is hidden like a seed,
Waiting to grow,
Waiting to bloom.

Let go.
For the shadow of what you were
Is the shadow of what you are becoming.
And in this place,
There is only the journey,
A constant unfolding of everything
And nothing at once.

So wake again.
Not as the one you were,
But as the one who has always been.
Between the lines,
In the quiet,
Where the soldier sleeps,
And the world remembers what it has forgotten.

Details | Florin Lacatus Poem

Stones and Names


It is said that the black stone in Mecca
is not just a stone.
It is a shard of a vanished world,
an echo of a cry before words,
a sacred turmoil of being,
older than prayer,
older than the earth.

What if it had been different?
What if the name that echoes from Mecca
had been something else,
if the steps that are lost around the Kaaba
were not the shadow of our own steps,
but of older shadows,
from a time lost in the desert’s wasteland?

Today, between two moments of agony,
the hot coffee burns your lips,
and in an old cup, you see a broken symbol,
perhaps a sign of hands that carved gods
in cold stone, like death.

Stop.
Close your eyes, let your mind fall.
What is a name, if not a lie
that gains flesh,
an illusion that becomes blood,
a story we live until we believe it true?
Mecca, Medina, Makkeshwara—
they are words as heavy as stones,
becoming, over time, our breath,
like the steam that disappears in the cold morning air,
like a sigh of a body that no longer knows
what it means to live.

What if the truth is that they are only circles,
that everything revolves around the same essence?
What if everything we do, everything we are,
is only the trace of the same steps
scattering on roads of asphalt and dust?
We pray, but for what?
With the same words that mean nothing
but end up being all we have.

People seek the divine in old temples,
in stones that want to become sacred,
but perhaps the truth is here,
in your steps on the earth full of holes,
in every moment in which we breathe,
in every breath that seeks the sky,
in every fall, in every rise.
For perhaps the altar is not in cold stone,
but in every street you walk,
in every thought that consumes you,
in every silence that embraces you,
in a world that never stops loving and condemning you
at the same time.

Details | Florin Lacatus Poem

Tattoos

Since I no longer fit in my name,
I carry it beneath my heart,
like a relic unearthed
from a dead alphabet.
It is a cracked word,
written in blue ink
on the page of a lost Bible
in my grandparents' attic.

People call my name.
But their voices sound
like a bell lost
in an abandoned cathedral.
Perhaps they never learned
to utter the syllables of pain
in the language I was born from silence.

I grew up between walls with cracked icons
and elevators that ascended rarely,
like tired priests
who forget the names of saints.
My mother’s heart beat at the door of evening,
and no one answered.
Our words?
Fragments of stained glass
gathered after the earthquake.

My love
was a dog in the rain —
with eyes like two unspoken prayers,
barking at any light
that resembled salvation.

I write not to be forgiven,
but to be reminded by God
that I still exist.
My poems are confessions
without absolution,
prostrations written with fingers
on the walls of a clay cell.

I never had a room just for me,
only the low ceiling of life
and a window
that cried alone
when it snowed with memories.

I wrote my first poems
on the back of black-and-white photographs
where I smiled like a martyr
before execution.
Receipts from the bakery
became manuscripts,
and I keep them,
like Gospels
written in exile.

When I was small,
I believed God lived
in a subway station,
where only saints descend
and no one ascends
except with a verse on their lips.

I am afraid of mirrors
that ask me, "Who are you?"
and of my voice,
which has learned to be silent
even in prayer.

Between a slap and an embrace
there is only a held breath.
And the hardest thing
is to say:
"Today I did not cry,
but no one comforted me."

I wrote to you until my vowels bled.
Poetry remained between us
like an unfinished wedding —
without an altar, without witnesses,
only the word "amen"
spoken in a whisper.

Our love
was a fire at the Library of Heaven.
Everyone watched the flames,
no one saved a poem.
And yet,
our names smoked
between the burnt pages.

I did not lose you in one day,
but in every day
when my name
was no longer a prayer to you,
but a memory.

You left me my heart
like a forest of crosses.
Poets came to see it —
to steal wood for metaphors,
and left,
forgetting to bow.

At its peak,
I carried you like a saint
written in the language of longing.
Everyone read you.
But no one knew
that each verse
was a wound.

Now I write with silence,
and you,
are the most beautiful poem
that died
without ever being published.

Details | Florin Lacatus Poem

Between 1 and 0

1. The Eternal Gardens



I entered a garden
where the flowers have no names,
but only the idea of their existence.
There, time is not a succession,
but a circle that turns back into itself.
The roots do not ask the sky,
and the sky does not ask for answers.

Everything is simple and vast,
like a truth that has renounced
its own enigma.



2. The Silence Above



Beneath the vast sky,
there are no questions
and no answers.
It is only a silence so profound,
that it becomes the echo of another world.

I look toward it
and wonder if the weight I feel
is real
or just the projection of a soul
that no longer remembers its flight.

Perhaps the sky is a closed eye,
waiting for us to open it.



3. The Water of Forgetfulness



The river flows without song,
like a lost idea
seeking its meaning.
In its transparency,
only absence is reflected,
and the reflections are dreams
that have forgotten their own form.

I lean over and try to touch the truth,
but the water answers me
with the silence of an infinite
that refuses to be explained.



4. The Silent Pages



A book without words
is heavier than one full of them.
I run my fingers over its blank pages
and feel a language
that has not yet been born.

Perhaps truth does not need
letters,
perhaps the deepest stories
can never be written.
We carry them with us,
like shadows that do not ask for light.



5. The Metaphysics of Shadows



The shadows of birds do not fly.
They remain anchored to the earth,
like ideas that refuse to become sky.
I catch my hand in them
and wonder if the earth keeps them
out of fear
or out of love.

But perhaps even shadows have their meaning:
to be the witnesses of a flight
that only silence can understand.



6. The Mineral Prayer



In stones lies a hidden language
that time has not yet deciphered.
Their prayers do not rise,
but descend,
seeking the depths
where silence becomes absolute.

I listen to their patience
and wonder if eternity
is nothing more than
the courage to remain still.



7. The Sunset as a Wound



The dawn never comes without tearing the night.
In the light, every color
bears the burden of a silent struggle,
a scar that never closes.

I wonder if in this conflict
lies all the essence of creation.
Perhaps the day exists only
to give meaning to shadows.

Details | Florin Lacatus Poem

O Father, Tell

What would You do, O Father, tell,
If I should fade like fleeting mist?
Would heaven break, would heavens swell,
Or would my absence not exist?

Would You still paint the dawn with fire,
Though I no longer walk the day?
Would You keep faith when hopes expire,
Or let the light just slip away?

Would You still whisper my lost name,
When silence wraps my voice in stone?
Or leave me buried in the flame,
Alone, forgotten and unknown?

Would You still hold the earth so wide,
If none remained to see its face?
Would it dissolve, a drifting tide,
A dream dissolved without a place?

Would You still wait, with patient heart,
For one who’s vanished from Your sight?
Or fall apart and fall apart,
And sink into the endless night?

What are You when the prayers are done,
When holy walls begin to fall?
Does silence hide the holy One,
Or answer every broken call?

Or am I freed, by death’s embrace,
The spark that draws You close to me?
And if You fade with my last grace—
Did love exist? Or none to see?

Details | Florin Lacatus Poem

Pray without end

I do not ask You for light, O Lord,
but for the shadow that remembers it once was light,
that darkness with memory,
trembling in the corners of being
like a wounded golden memory.

I do not ask for forgiveness
but for the understanding
of why I collapse again and again in the same place,
with the same fear,
with the same unfinished wound in my chest.

I do not kneel from faith,
but from the weariness of words
that no longer know how to fly,
gathering in me like warm ash,
clothing my soul
like the dust of a sacred road.

I imagine You as a forgotten question
on the lips of those long gone.
Perhaps You dwell where thought fades,
in the stillness between two breaths,
in the moment that hesitates,
in the unfinished gesture of the angel who stopped
before becoming flame.

Do not send me signs, Lord.
I have grown used to Your absences—
the only truths that never lie.
Presences change faces,
but You,
You are always absent in the same way:
like a seed that gave up
on the promise of becoming a flower.

Or am I, perhaps,
a grain of sand planted in Your garden,
unaware of what germination feels like?

Forgive me not for my sins,
but for what I might have become
and lacked the courage to be.
You placed a path within my chest,
and I chose the silence
that no longer echoes.

My prayer is not a voice,
but a sigh hidden between ribs—
a child born in famine,
fed with dreams and cradled
by false promises.

Do not see me as a broken vessel,
but as clay that has yet to decide
whether to become urn or temple.
Perhaps I am merely the memory
of a potter worn out by so many beginnings.

I built a religion
from Your silence,
a monastery of patience
from Your distance.
And if You do not come,
I will still wait for You,
in every choice that wounds me.

I fear salvation…
its garment far too white
for one who has lived
cloaked in the rags
of a guilt grown carefully,
like a rare plant.

But if You are—
do not leave.
Not tonight.
Not now,
when my doubt has learned to be measured
and not just desperate.

Receive me,
not as a supplicant,
but as a thought
that entered the wrong body.
Perhaps You won’t understand me,
but perhaps that very thing
is enough to know
that You are God.

Details | Florin Lacatus Poem

The City, Between Love and Forgetfulness

The light shatters at the edges of the morning,
like a tired god losing its face in the fog.
The streets sigh under the hurried steps,
while the wind shakes forgotten dreams through the corners of buildings.

From the steaming cups,
the coffee rises to the sky like a fading hymn,
a prayer of those who no longer know
where the night ends and life begins.
Their hands grasp the same absences,
in a perpetual dance with the shadows of work.

On the sidewalks, words crumble
like old plaster on silent facades.
Shrill horns push the city
further away from itself,
turning its hourglass mechanically,
pushing it towards a new, identical day,
where time loses its teeth in the asphalt.

The shop windows blink with illusory mirrors,
watching passersby who believe themselves masters.
But who owns whom,
when bodies are only shattered vessels,
and souls – forgotten wind in a dusty attic?

Towards evening, the city closes its heavy eyelids,
fatigue spills over buildings like old veils.
Love and Hate signal each other from intersections,
touch for a moment, struggle, and disappear.
The circle closes again,
the four elements change masks,
and life remains only a rehearsal of forgetfulness.

Details | Florin Lacatus Poem

Maybe

Maybe time is just an illusion,
a dance of the soul in its own shadow,
but the voice that burns on paper
does not know silence.

Details | Florin Lacatus Poem

Those Who Burn Like the Lights of the Sky


You do not see them, but they are there.
White shadows, walking without rest
on the thin line between life and death,
where bodies break,
but souls remain upright.

They ask for nothing.
No sleep, no food, no time.
They carry their wounds in silence,
like pillars of light
that do not know how to fade.
They burn their hearts on the altar of suffering,
until nothing remains but the ashes
of a life given to others.

They are hands that close eyelids,
that lift weary bodies,
that bring hope where nothing
seems to breathe anymore.
They are eyes that stare into the darkness,
seeing, beyond flesh and bone,
the silent battle of a soul
that refuses to leave.

But who will save them?
Who will heal their unseen wounds?
Who will place a hand on their forehead
when fever takes hold of them?
Who will whisper: Rest now, you have done enough?

There will be no one.
For they burn until the end,
without asking, without crying,
leaving behind nothing
but a forgotten memory
and a light that no longer shines.

And one day,
when their bodies are mere shadows
on the cold beds of their own hospital,
no one will ask who they were,
and the world will move on,
without remembering those
who kept it alive.

But up above,
where only souls still speak,
an invisible fire will remain lit,
a light that never dies,
because those who burn out of love
never truly perish.