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Poezii Românesti - Romanian Poetry


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My first confession
prose [ ]

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by [dayana ]

2007-03-30  |     | 

I do not want to tell a word about my crime. It is really late tonight to confess. My fault does not exist. Look at the crossword puzzle. Do you understand this meaningful size of the pieces? Keep them together in your mind. They will certainly turn the tables, some day. I am so tired, I can not sleep, can not say a word. I am screaming inside. I am guilty, perhaps. They did not worth a fig. They gave me everything they had, they gave me light.

One of them was my host last night. He acted gently. I stood in line for about an hour to get a ticket. The show was pretty good; it covered my discreet mood with a soft blanket of fog. He looked blooming. I can now remember clearly. I thought he was a black beetle – keen look, lurking around… Because of the lights or maybe because of his ill-fame, he looked like trying to reach the sky by having all those people in his spell. Nearly he opened the door with his thoughts. He could not blow off the twinge of conscience. I was looking deep into his eyes, they were glowing and, as he whispered softly, the spell broke… We all were waiting to happen…

Had he stepped forward, our trembling hands wouldn’t have touched the ceiling. And that would have been carried out by the butcher. Because HE was there, too.

Even if I was concerned by calling out his name, he would have given me no reason to forbid my hidden desire to keep him in this confinement. He was terrified people could stop him to behave like a illusionist. Even though he was not one of them. He was leaning his head against the curtain, all of us were barely breathing. We were waiting, with our trembling hands, a sign of his look. But he stood still. I thought he asked in a low voice our names, but later I realised I was wrong. He was already whispering our names. In a little coffin, among other traces of ash, there it was: a rare piece – a small but heavy crystal cube. As his hands lifted it from the coffin, our eyes still charmed by the holy glitter, turned to the opened door of the assembly room. A young, fair- haired maid walked in. We all started to mutter and to swish our black, long, old- fashioned coats. It seemed we were already charmed by the beauty we had in front of our mean eyes. She gazed at us; her look was dreamy and tired in the meantime.

to be continued... somehow, someday...

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