duminică, 12 februarie 2012

Noapte galanta de week-end

Cavalerul: buna seara
Liana: buna seara




Cavalerul: cred ca e prima oara ca vbim
Liana: parca am mai vb
Cavalerul: sunt un cavaler
Liana: eu sunt o liana
Cavalerul: eu am cam 40 de ani
Liana: eu cam 30
Liana: multi inainte
Cavalerul: multi inainte
Liana: multumesc
Cavalerul: multumesc si eu
Cavalerul: in esenta, sunt singur sambata seara
Cavalerul: deranjez?
Liana: ok si cam ce propui?
Cavalerul: sa discutam
Liana: ok mi-ar placea
Cavalerul: incep sa ma simt la gura sobei
Cavalerul: pot deci sa iau loc
Liana: sigur
Cavalerul: pot sa mi te inchpui imbracata in matase?
Cavalerul: ai iesit sa pui putin vin la fiert? sa nu uiti scortisoara!
Liana: ok dar preferi mai dulce?
Cavalerul: dulce si fierbinte
Cavalerul: tu?
Cavalerul: cum preferi?
Liana: tot asa
Cavalerul: probabil si un pic mai... tare?
Liana: aha

marți, 22 noiembrie 2011

La neige

La neige tombe, indiscontinûment,

Comme une lente et longue et pauvre laine,
Parmi la morne et longue et pauvre plaine,
Froide d’amour, chaude de haine.
La neige tombe, infiniment,
Comme un moment -
Monotone - dans un moment ;
La neige choit, la neige tombe,
Monotone, sur les maisons
Et les granges et leurs cloisons ;
La neige tombe et tombe
Myriadaire, au cimetière, au creux des tombes.
Le tablier des mauvaises saisons,
Violemment, là-haut, est dénoué ;
Le tablier des maux est secoué
A coups de vent, sur les hameaux des horizons.
Le gel descend, au fond des os,
Et la misère, au fond des clos,
La neige et la misère, au fond des âmes ;
La neige lourde et diaphane,
Au fond des âtres froids et des âmes sans flamme,
Qui se fanent, dans les cabanes.
Aux carrefours des chemins tors,
Les villages sont seuls, comme la mort ;
Les grands arbres, cristallisés de gel,
Au long de leur cortège par la neige,
Entrecroisent leurs branchages de sel.
Les vieux moulins, où la mousse blanche s’agrège,
Apparaissent, comme des pièges,
Tout à coup droits, sur une butte ;
En bas, les toits et les auvents
Dans la bourrasque, à contre vent,
Depuis Novembre, luttent ;
Tandis qu’infiniment la neige lourde et pleine
Choit, par la morne et longue et pauvre plaine.
Ainsi s’en va la neige au loin,
En chaque sente, en chaque coin,
Toujours la neige et son suaire,
La neige pâle et inféconde,
En folles loques vagabondes,
Par à travers l’hiver illimité monde.
(Emile Verhaeren)

To Winter


O Winter! bar thine adamantine doors:
The north is thine; there hast thou built thy dark
Deep-founded habitation. Shake not thy roofs,
Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car.'
He hears me not, but o'er the yawning deep
Rides heavy; his storms are unchain'd, sheathиd
In ribbиd steel; I dare not lift mine eyes,
For he hath rear'd his sceptre o'er the world.

Lo! now the direful monster, whose 1000 skin clings
To his strong bones, strides o'er the groaning rocks:
He withers all in silence, and in his hand
Unclothes the earth, and freezes up frail life.

He takes his seat upon the cliffs,--the mariner
Cries in vain. Poor little wretch, that deal'st
With storms!--till heaven smiles, and the monster
(William Blake)

ten times happier

Is driv'n yelling to his caves beneath mount Hecla.
Then let not winter's ragged hand deface
In thee thy summer ere thou be distilled.
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
With beauty's treasure ere it be self-killed.
That use is not forbidden usury
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
That's for thyself to breed another thee,
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one,
Ten times thy self were happier than thou art,
If ten of thine ten times refigured thee;
Then what could death do, if thou shouldst depart,
Leaving thee living in posterity?
Be not self-willed, for thou art much too fair
To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.
(Shakespeare)

sunt eu, la usa inghetata

Ninge grozav pe câmp la abator
Si sânge cald se scurge pe canal ;
Plină-i zăpada de sânge animal --
Si ninge mereu pe un trist patinor...

E albul aprins de sânge închegat,
Si corbii se plimbă prin sânge... si sug ;
Dar ceasu-i târziu... în zări corbii fug
Pe câmp, la abator, s-a înnoptat.

Ninge mereu în zarea-nnoptată...
Si-acum când geamuri triste se aprind
Spre abator vin lupii licărind.
-- Iubito, sunt eu la usa înghetată...
 (Bacovia)

Tél

Valami nagy-nagy tüzet kéne rakni,
Hogy melegednének az emberek.

Ráhányni mindent, ami antik, ócska,
Csorbát, töröttet s ami új, meg ép,
Gyermekjátékot, - ó, boldog fogócska! -
S rászórni szórva mindent, ami szép.

Dalolna forró láng az égig róla
S kezén fogná mindenki földiét.

Valami nagy-nagy tüzet kéne rakni,
Hisz zúzmarás a város, a berek...
Fagyos kamrák kilincsét fölszaggatni
És rakni, adjon sok-sok meleget.

Azt a tüzet, ó jaj, meg kéne rakni,
Hogy fölengednének az emberek!

(József Attila)

A Winter Eden


A winter garden in an alder swamp,
Where conies now come out to sun and romp,
As near a paradise as it can be
And not melt snow or start a dormant tree.

It lifts existence on a plane of snow
One level higher than the earth below,
One level nearer heaven overhead,
And last year's berries shining scarlet red.

It lifts a gaunt luxuriating beast
Where he can stretch and hold his highest feat
On some wild apple tree's young tender bark,
What well may prove the year's high girdle mark.

So near to paradise all pairing ends:
Here loveless birds now flock as winter friends,
Content with bud-inspecting. They presume
To say which buds are leaf and which are bloom.

A feather-hammer gives a double knock.
This Eden day is done at two o'clock.
An hour of winter day might seem too short
To make it worth life's while to wake and sport.
(Robert Frost)