A letter to whom it echoes or `Years of upheaval` (title by Henry Kissinger)

Throughout this journey of pleasure and pain,

Of terror and heaven,

Our existence hangs by a hair of patience

From which we can finally see … a purpose.

… the light at the very beginning of the tunnel.

Those years have put a stamp to our hearts

Both with good and bad,

Sour and sweet,

Lifts and stones,

Recession and progress

… and to all our romantic failures.

We are building our years

And yet the years are building us …

How can you desire something

That you are afraid of?

How can you wish to reach someone

When you can`t catch an eye glance?

 How can you calm the mind

When it can`t sleep at night?

How can you write a letter

When you know not to whom?

How can you sleep on time

When you claim is not enough?

Time has put this letter on my very wall,

In front of my eyes

And even gave it color.

HE is trying to speak to it each and every day,

Sending a message to the unknown and yet so well known …

Hoping to gather the leaves from this tree

In the midst of autumn.

He often speaks aloud

And the voice becomes stronger and stronger.

In time, those vibes are reaching the target

With an explosive emotional power.

The vibes …

Are moving the earth,

Are warming the winters,

Are cooling the summers,

Are stopping the rains.

But is it wise to initiate change

With no sense of responsibility for its consequences?

Is it wise to sleep on your years

As well as claim justice?

Is it wise to be frightened of your existence?

Now time is reflecting some kind of loss

On your clock.

But the clock is blurry …

And you miss being on the watch.

This is your existence …

These are your years …

… of upheaval.

(©Ana-Lucretia Nedelcu/LiterAnART 2014)


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