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Florin Lacatus Poem
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.
Copyright © Florin Lacatus | Year Posted 2025
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Florin Lacatus Poem
We climb the veils of woven mist,
Where time dissolves and stars persist,
Our hands coax flames from shadowed thread,
And light the paths the lost have tread.
We herd the fog on silver brooms,
Awake the night with whispered tunes,
We teach the snow to hum its prayer,
And fold the wind through tangled air.
We sail in cups that catch the light,
Pour dawn from hours stitched in night,
Our shadows rise like restless rye,
And scale the quiet ladders high.
We trap the dark with seeds of flame,
Nameless in dusk, we feed the flame,
We bind the tides with threads of hair,
And float the sky on breathless air.
We are the last lamplighters here,
Who guard the hush when stars appear,
With trembling hands, we cradle night,
And rock the moon till morning’s light.
Copyright © Florin Lacatus | Year Posted 2025
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Florin Lacatus Poem
I felt like it was coming,
not through buds breaking open,
but through a softness in the air,
like a soft napkin
forgotten on the chest
of an old icon.
No one announced it
not the wind,
not the birds,
not the old woman at the corner window,
threading her days together
with a broken needle.
This spring has no footsteps,
no voice,
only the faint scent of resin
and something holy
that’s already turned to ash.
I asked my mother
if God still has seasons.
She looked at me,
then at a flower in the window
that hasn’t bloomed in years.
“I think He lost them,” she said,
“or keeps them locked inside,
like letters
He can’t bring Himself to open.”
And I understood:
not all springs bring life.
Some arrive
only to teach us
how to stay alive
without shining,
how to die
without vanishing.
A blackbird watched me
with the eyes of a child
who once saw too much light
and now
fears the sun.
And I said nothing,
like a prophet without a mountain,
carrying a single line
pressed against my ribs:
It won’t be long
before the grass
learns how to sing
about us.
Copyright © Florin Lacatus | Year Posted 2025
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Florin Lacatus Poem
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.
Copyright © Florin Lacatus | Year Posted 2024
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Florin Lacatus Poem
If ever you were taken from me,
The sun would rise in mourning black,
And birds would fold their wings in shame
For mother not to bring you back.
The sky would wear your apron soft,
The wind would weep your name,
And I — a child with broken psalms —
Would never speak the same.
If ever you were taken from me,
No bread would taste, no dream would stay,
I’d ask the earth to give you breath,
And take my own away.
I'd gather all your lullabies
And sing them to the moon,
So she might rock you back to sleep
And keep you coming soon.
If ever you were taken from me,
I’d find you in the scent of rain,
In folded towels, in threads of light,
In silence wrapped in pain.
I’d keep your slippers by the door,
Your comb upon the sill,
And speak to chairs like they were you,
And hope you'd hear me still.
If ever you were taken from me,
The prayers would lose their flame,
And I’d invent a newer faith
That only knows your name.
A gospel made of Sunday hair,
Of soup, and song, and soap
And I would write it every night,
In ink made out of hope.
If ever you were taken from me,
I’d carry on, but less, but slow
A ghost in search of your perfume,
A heart that doesn’t know
How not to beat in sync with yours,
How not to wait at noon
Like I still do, beneath the clock,
For you to come back soon.
If ever you were taken from me,
The garden would forget to bloom,
The kettle would refuse to sing,
The house would fill with gloom.
And yet—I’d still set out your plate,
Still pour your cup of tea,
Still hum the songs you used to hum
When rocking only me.
If ever you were taken from me,
I'd wear your voice against my chest,
Like talisman or ancient thread
That keeps the bones at rest.
I’d walk through shops you used to love,
Touch soaps you used to buy,
Then leave with empty hands again,
And wetness in my eye.
If ever you were taken from me,
No priest could quite translate
The language of a child who weeps
Outside his mother’s gate.
I'd look for you in every cloud,
In coins dropped in the street,
In women pushing carts of bread
With aching, swollen feet.
If ever you were taken from me,
I’d sew my grief into a shawl,
And wear it through each solemn day
Until we meet through fall
And spring, and dusk, and birth again,
When time is done with fear,
And all that’s left is mother's touch,
Returning soft and near.
So if you must be far from me,
Beyond the breath, beyond the years,
Then carry all my unsaid words
Through heaven’s veil of tears.
And when I’ll walk that final dusk,
Alone, through shadowed skies,
Let your warm hand, unseen, reach down
And close my weeping eyes.
Copyright © Florin Lacatus | Year Posted 2025
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Florin Lacatus Poem
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.
Copyright © Florin Lacatus | Year Posted 2025
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Florin Lacatus Poem
He wore no mask of murder’s face,
No blade was in his hand,
But still they called his love a crime,
And could not understand.
He kissed a boy with poet’s grace,
The courts replied: “He’s banned.”
They cast him in a narrow cell,
Where joy must learn to die.
He’d loved too much, and not too safe:
Too deep, too true, too high.
And through the bars, he looked each day
With longing at the sky.
He did not cry, he did not plead,
He bore what he was shown.
They robbed him of the right to love,
Yet could not crush the bone.
He wrote with pain, he wept with ink,
And bled through words alone.
He walked with ghosts in silent halls,
With shame upon his name.
Yet in his chest the fire still burned:
A holy, hidden flame.
For those who dared to love like him,
He bore the lash of blame.
The world had called his heart obscene,
And flung him to the floor,
But still he loved, though love had cost
His health, his home, his lore.
They broke his wings for loving men…
Then cursed him when he swore.
And now the streets are loud with light,
With flags that never fade,
And lovers walk without a veil,
Without the fear he paid.
But every color in that flag
Was once a wound he made.
So let us speak the poet’s name
With reverence and with fire.
For Wilde, who taught us love survives
When thrown into the mire,
Who held his soul above the law
And walked the thorny wire.
Let none forget the silent ones
Who loved in secret tombs,
Whose letters never reached the light,
Whose joy became their doom.
We carry them in every kiss,
In every Pride that blooms.
He died alone, in exile’s shade,
No crowd to cheer his name.
But in the hearts of those who rise,
Still burns his quiet flame.
And every march that fills the street
Confirms his truth, not shame.
For Wilde once wrote, “Each man must kill
The thing that he holds dear.”
Yet what he loved has risen now,
And sings for all to hear.
So raise your voice and walk with pride
He walks beside you, near.
He did not steal, he did not fight,
But kissed a man beneath the stars.
For this, they stripped him of his light
And sentenced him to silent bars.
No bells were rung, no tears were shed,
They wrote him out with ink and flame.
And in the cell where he was led,
They whispered shame upon his name.
A poet walks, not on the ground,
But somewhere just beyond the pain.
They caged him where no stars were found,
And left him staring at the rain.
The pages trembled in his hand,
But still he wrote, as prophets do.
Each word a wound he dared to stand,
Each line a prayer the night once knew.
He did not beg the world to see,
He did not kneel, he did not run.
He simply held his love as free,
And paid the price for being one.
O Pride, you rise with joyful drums,
But he once marched with silent eyes.
His rainbow lived where sorrow comes,
And bled through dust and lowered skies.
He loved in ways the law forbade,
And left his truth beneath the yoke.
They tried to bury what he said,
But Wilde was stone, and fire, and oak.
He sleeps beneath a foreign name,
But wakes in every voice today.
And each who loves without the shame
Now walks the road he cleared of clay.
We light a candle by his name,
We hang our flags in brighter sun.
For every love once wrapped in flame,
We say: his war is not undone.
Copyright © Florin Lacatus | Year Posted 2025
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Florin Lacatus Poem
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.
Copyright © Florin Lacatus | Year Posted 2025
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Florin Lacatus Poem
They called her Alice,
but perhaps her true name was Smoke,
rising slow and silent
from letters never sent,
from altars crumbled beneath
the cold gaze of forgotten saints,
from lips that kissed her only to still her breath.
She did not fall.
She transcended.
There is a sacred difference,
between shattering
and choosing the void.
She stepped beyond the back of her own reflection,
where silver fractures whispered secrets
older than time’s first prayer,
and her eyes held the quiet sorrow
of gods who have forgotten mercy.
The wormhole was no place,
but an unspoken hymn,
a rift in the fabric of becoming,
curved like a question
too holy for a mother’s voice,
too fragile for an angel’s touch.
No rabbits greeted her,
only warnings draped in silence,
clocks weeping timeless tears,
knowing the pain of counting
souls that vanish between moments.
In that other world,
she wore her scars like relics,
held her shadow like a prayer,
whispering softly,
“I forgive the absence
of your surrender.”
She met herself,
not in cold mirrors,
but in the trembling hush of ancient trees,
in the ache beneath forgotten songs,
in the boy she once was,
before the world demanded
she choose
between breath and belonging.
She bowed not to queens,
but unstitched their crowns,
thread by sacred thread,
until all that remained
was dust,
and the infinite silence of grace.
And when she reached the edge,
there was no light,
no voice,
no door.
Only her own heartbeat:
steady, eternal
like the first drop of rain
falling
on a city
that forgot her name,
but still remembers her soul.
Copyright © Florin Lacatus | Year Posted 2025
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Florin Lacatus Poem
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?
Copyright © Florin Lacatus | Year Posted 2025
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